


It's in your soul

by BozBozBoz



Series: LND Fixit AU [1]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, It's Gustave - but not as we know him, My First Smut, Post LND AU, Slow Burn, Spoiler - he thinks she's dead, minimal Raoul bashing, no Original Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 58,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24044668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BozBozBoz/pseuds/BozBozBoz
Summary: For ten long years Erik has been haunted by the memory of his departed love Christine and trying to recreate himself in a manner worthy of her memory. But when he hears of the arrival in Manhattan of a mysterious singer with a cursed child in tow, he begins a series of discoveries that perhaps put redemption and happiness within his grasp at last.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Series: LND Fixit AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1990876
Comments: 222
Kudos: 264





	1. The Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Set in a LND AU, this work takes the events of Beneath a Moonless Sky as canon, so if you're not a fan of that particular plot detail, you probably wont be too keen on this either. Intended to be a one shot, but it ran away with me! 
> 
> Be gentle folks, this is my first fic. I'm a long time, if somewhat lapsed phan, but after only recently discovering Love Never Dies I got bitten by a 'What if?' plot bunny and it wouldn't let go, so this is the result. 
> 
> I've got a fair chunk of this written already, so I hope to have this fully uploaded and complete pretty quickly. I know where it's going, but there are some bits where I'm not quite sure how it will get there yet, so it could work out to be 3, or maybe 4 chapters in the end (edit, OK, so maybe 4, or 5, or 6. Bloody Erik just wont shut up angsting to himself).

Ten long years.

It was always worse at night, he thought. In the day he was taken up with his theatre, his staff, the show, his inventions. There were people to see, investors to charm (well, he thought with an ironic smile, perhaps not charm, perhaps to mystify, to tantalise, to dazzle and bamboozle) and business to do. No, in the daytime, it was possible, if a creature such has he should be allowed to make this allusion, to mistake Erik for a living man. A successful living man at that. One with an empire to run -allbiet an empire of freaks and misfits, but it was his nonetheless.

But at night, when time crawls by and darkness creeps, that had always been his time for music, when his muse would strike. Except that was then. For ten long years his muse, his Christine, had been dead, taken only nine months into her marriage during childbirth. Dead and lost and gone.

Ten long years of emptiness, of aching, of longing, of mourning, of sorrow. And yet, here he still was, still breathing, somehow, still living. He had tried not to, of course. When he first heard the news he had been sure that he himself would somehow cease to be in her absence. That the loss of her would somehow starve him of the oxygen he needed to survive.

He had experienced crushing darkness, of that there is no doubt. Darkness worse than anything he had experienced before in all his years of pain and torture and agony. But while that had been a torture of the flesh, this was a new torture, a torture to his very innermost soul, finding parts of him he had thought to be already dead, and ripping them apart anew. And yet, no matter how hard he had tried to shut himself off to the world, to close himself up, shut his eyes and simply cease to be, he could not.

 _She_ would not let him.

Each night, she would come to him. Torture him, needle him and prod him and beg at him to live, to move, to create, to _be._ The ghost of her dragged from him strange tortured symphonies, inspired his fevered hands to make strange fantastical creatures, begged him to go, find the beauty in the world and embrace it.

_‘It’s in your soul that the true distortion lies’_

For ten years he had lived with those words. They had settled and germinated within his heart that fateful night at the opera house, watered by Christine’s generosity and kindness, and it had borne fruit later on that unforgettable night when she had come to him, and they had joined together, souls beared there in the darkness. That night, as he watched her sleeping he had realised that she had been right. He could not teather her pure soul to his warped and mangled one, no matter how his heart cried out for it. If he was ever truly to be worthy of her, then he had to free her. To stop once and for all this tortured dance they were trapped in and let her go. He had slipped away into the night, whispering a goodbye as his heart flew into pieces about him.

He read of her wedding the next day in all the papers. Heard of her triumph as she rose from simple opera girl to Viscountess, safe at last in her chateau with the boy who could give her everything that he could not. Days later, determined to give her the closure that they both needed, he had staged his own death. Allowed reports to circulate that the body of the fabled opera ghost had at last been found beneath the ruins of the opera house, and had slipped away into the darkness.

Only nine months later he read of her death. Hiding on the outskirts of Paris at the time, he had slunk back into the city to watch her funeral, his already shattered heart splintering anew at the realisation that his angel was no more. He watched the boy, pale faced and steely eyed scatter the dirt onto the coffin, and when all had left, he slipped down before the gravediggers could begin their work and added in a single red rose.

And then, when he discovered that it would not end, that he _could not_ end, he had done the only thing he knew how. He had run. He had run, and run, fleeing until he reached the coast and could flee no further, then secreting himself onto a cargo ship, where he lived like a ghost in the bowels of the ship, sustaining himself on rats and brackish water, until at last he reached the new world.

Here, he vowed, he would start anew. He would build in himself a shrine to her, a shrine to all things beautiful and unearthly and strange - he would become the person she had so desperately wanted him to be.

Of course, it had not been quite as simple as that. He had some money, but not much, certainly not enough to set himself up in any respectable line of business. And so he had done the only thing he knew. The only thing he could, with a face such as his. He had returned to the sideshows, creating mysteries and illusions, and, when the occasion called for it and he had no other recourse, putting himself on display. But no more was he the living death. No more would he hurt and maim, and manipulate to get his way. Instead, he had worked hard to use his talents to make connections, to win favours, courted pity rather than scorn and fear though it sat bitterly on his tongue.

There were times, oh, so many times, when his fingers had itched for the noose, and he had been tempted to return to his old ways. The blood boiled within his veins and his withered heart beat in protest at the indignitions that some of his fellow freaks endured. And then one day he had realised. He didn’t need to resort to violence against his enemies to beat them. He could, quite simply, remove them from the equation by doing it better than them. By creating a world more fantastical, more magnificent, more beautiful than any that they could imagine, and by peopling it with such strangeness, such illusion, such splendour that all could not fail to be drawn in, he could win. And so, Mister Y and his amazing Phantasma were born. He rounded up his fellow freaks and oddities, and took his show on the road, dazzling audiences across America, before settling at last in Cony Island to build his empire.

This was his realm, where music, and artifice and illusion, but most of all, beauty, strange, magnificent and terrible beauty were king. 

On this particular night, Erik was haunted by more than just the ghost of Christine. Within his ayrie he paced back and forth, his mind racing, his heart confused.

Little more than a month ago, word had begun to spread of a singer, lately arrived in Manhattan with the voice of an angel. Erik was not particularly interested in the singer. Once upon a time he might have gone to listen, in a desperate search for a voice which would fill the gaping void in his soul. One that might make his music live again. But he had heard enough voices now to know that the title ‘voice of an angel’ was an empty mockery, applied all too liberally to any songbird with the ability to hold a note or two, even more so if they were blessed with the ability to flutter their eyelashes and flash a little flesh to keep the vulgar herd entertained.

True, it was said that this particular ‘angel’ refused to show her face on stage, always wearing mourning, and keeping her face covered with a veil. Perhaps her face was not able to match her voice? Erik was no stranger to the use of disguise to create mystery and illusion. He could not begrudge her that.

No, what interested Erik in this particular songstress were the rumours which swirled around her. Rumours about a cursed child.

Singers with bastard children were not unusual. Such relationships often went with the territory, and Erik had seen many a young coquette training at it’s mother’s knee. The stories about this child were something quite different.

He had heard it first from one of his circus freaks. Over the last five years, since he had opened Phantasma, Erik’s park had become something of a magnet for freaks and oddities. It was said that Mr Y provided a safe haven for the grotesque and bizarre - his mask an icon and talisman for the downtrodden and abused. The irony of his becoming an object of veneration, a shining beacon of safety for society’s outcasts did not escape Erik. That he should have lived to be considered _safe,_ to be thought of as kind was nothing short of fantastic. And yet so it was, and he held it as a sort of balm to his fractured soul. Proof, perhaps, that he had at last exorcised the monster within.

On this occasion, a pair, a tattooed strongman, and an acrobatic midget had told him of their encounter with the mysterious singer during their time on the Vaudeville circuit. Indeed, they said, her voice was heavenly, but that was nothing to the haunting music which had been heard coming from her quarters backstage. Music played by a hideous, cursed child.

The child went everywhere with her, they said. She would only let it out of her sight while she performed, when she would leave it locked securely in her dressing room. It was even rumoured that the child had composed some of the arias she sang. Beautiful, haunting melodies, so diametrically opposed with the child’s own appearance - hideous, demonic. A deformed face, so bloated and rotten in appearance, so that all that saw it were forced to avert their eyes and turn away.

The story had been like a dagger to Erik’s withered heart. Was this not his story too? A child, blessed with the ability to create beauty, but cursed with the appearance of the very devil himself. He told himself it was merely professional curiosity that drove him to seek the child out. If indeed the child was so very talented, perhaps it may be an asset to his show? He avoided making contact with the mother. By all accounts, she was fiercely protective of the child, and he did not want to appear as an opportunist, seeking to take advantage of him. No, best that he see it alone, to determine the truth of the rumours first, then he could decide what to do.

He had not been prepared for the feeling of aching sadness that had hit him when he first saw it. Finding the child had been simple enough. He knew where the mother was playing, and was adept enough at concealing himself backstage in theatres to be able to locate it in the dressing room without being discovered himself. 

He had seen the mother, dressed head to foot in black just as he was told, bending to whisper in the boys ear, a kiss to the top of it’s head, hands gently teasing it’s side, heard the child giggle, and then she had stood, and Erik had to stifle an involuntary gasp. It was like looking into a mirror, and yet, it was not.

The mother had hovered momentarily. Her veiled gaze appeared to shift in the direction of his hiding place, and Erik had been overcome with a sudden, strong and strange urge to reveal himself immediately to them both. Then just as suddenly, she shook her head, turned and left, and Erik was alone with the child.

Such a child! 

He had stayed hidden that first time, watching in wonder, as the child sat rapt at a small piano, his fingers moving rhythmically over the keys, his eyes glassy, unfocussed, fixed on a point somewhere beyond him, or perhaps it was within him, as the music poured fourth.

‘This child, this boy, he plays like me!’ - he thought with wonder. ‘He _looks_ like me!’.

And it was true - the boy's face was his own face. Different, somehow softened, the large brown eyes more mellow, and holding more wonder than pain, but yet the same. There was the same puffy, distorted lip, the same papery thin skin, the same stringy hair, and unnatural lumping of flesh, the same purpling on one side of the face, contrasting the smoothness of the other. Only the visible skull was missing - lending the child a melted and distorted, rather than truly rotten look.

He had watched, transfixed, until he heard the distant sound of footsteps returning to the door. The lock turned, the child looked up, and seeing someone - his mother? - through the gap in the door his sunken eyes had lit with joy, puffy lips spread into a twisted smile, and he had lept from the piano and scampered away through the door, leaving Erik alone, hiding in the darkness, to release a breath he had not realised he had been holding. 

He had fled then, returned to his Ayrie to pace the floor again and again. To say he had not slept would be a truism. Erik hardly ever slept anyway. And yet he was seized with a strange kind of frantic energy which left him feeling both drained and invigorated. He had to see the boy again. For what purpose he did not yet know, but he felt compelled to know more, to see more, to somehow connect himself with this strange, unexpected kindred spirit.

Perhaps, if he had taken time to think, he would have recognised that the feeling which drove him on was, for perhaps the first time in his life, a sense of belonging. A tantalising, heady possibility that the child was something akin to him. That he somehow knew what it was like to _be_ him. That perhaps he was not entirely alone after all. He told himself, however, that it was the music. That he had a chance, nay, even a responsibility to nurture this child’s talent, to develop it, perhaps even to find an outlet for it, if he could.

The first time he revealed himself to the boy he had hardly known how to behave. Gone where the days where he could lurk behind mirrors, luring children in with his voice. No, he would not go there again. If this was to happen, it must be between him, Erik, the man, and the boy alone. No smoke, no mirrors, no deception.

He had waited, until the mother had left for the stage, as usual, and then, he simply taken a deep breath and stepped into the dressing room.

He had expected the boy at least to startle. Probably to scream for his Mama, possibly just to run away. Instead, the boy simply looked up, eyebrows slightly raised and said ‘Oh, Hello’.

For a moment Erik had stood, frozen and wordless, unsure of how to proceed. Then tentatively, he took a step forward, and said ‘Hello’ back.

‘My name is Erik,’ he said simply. He wasn’t sure why he had said Erik, and not Mr Y, as he tended to do with everybody else, but somehow it seemed to be important that with this boy, at least, he was nobody but himself. ‘I heard you play, and I wondered…’ he gestured to the piano. ‘May I?’.

The boys eyes brightened and he smiled up at Erik eagerly. ‘Oh! Do you play too? Would you play for me monsieur?’

And so it passed that Erik spent the next forty five minutes playing the piano with this strange, yet achingly familiar boy. He hardly knew why, or how, but as they played the child spoke, and told him of the music that lived in his head, of how he and his Mama had travelled from theatre to theatre, of the people he had seen, the music he had heard, the songs he had written, and the ones he could not quite coax from his head to his fingers. 

Numbly, almost mechanically at first, Erik had corrected the boy on his fingering, suggested improvements to phrasing and technique, and solutions to more challenging passages. By the time he came to leave he was promising wholeheartedly that he would come again, somehow entranced by the child and feeling more alive than he had done in, oh!, so many years.

Of course, he had had to extract a promise from the child that he would not reveal his presence to his mother. While the boy had not reacted to his rather unexpected presence (‘Well, he is the child of a music hall singer’, he reasoned, ‘perhaps the child is used to finding strange men in his mother’s dressing room. It would not be unheard of.’), he could not expect the mother to be so sanguine when he heard that a strange masked man had chosen to spend time playing the piano with her child, and yet had fled before she returned. No, better leave that conversation for another day. First, he must, nay, he _needed,_ to understand this child. To work out why, and how they seemed to be kindred souls. Once he understood that, then, he felt sure, he would be able to persuade the mother. Persuade her what, he did not yet know, but somehow he knew that he could not let this child vanish into the night.


	2. Angel of Music

He should really stop. He knew he ought to, knew this could only end badly. After all, it’s not as if he didn’t have past experience in this area. Sneaking about, teaching music to a child who holds an inexplicable pull for him? He could not afford to get close, to become too attached and have his heart broken again.

For two weeks now he had gone to the child every evening. He could not resist. He told himself he was helping the child, nurturing his talent so that perhaps he could have a chance at a life he had not, but deep inside he knew that was not all.

It was like looking into a magic mirror. An image of himself reflected back, but without the flaws. Oh, of course, the physical defects were there, plain for all to see. And yet, despite the grusome and distorted visage, there was something truly beautiful about the child. He had none of the anger, none of the rage, or the pain, or the mistrust. Somehow, he was indescribably pure, his eyes seemed to see only the good and the beauty in everything.

He wondered how it could be. Could it be possible he had not experienced rejection and revulsion from others around him? He supposed it was possible he was like those rare animals found on islands without any preditors. Perhaps the mother had kept him so sheltered that he did not know to fear? Yet that was unlikely - in his stories he spoke of people he had met on the Vaudeville circuit with his mother. It certainly didn’t sound like he had spent much time in the company of other children, or indeed anyone other than his own mother, but nor did it sound like he had been hidden away like an object of shame.

Perhaps, he told himself, it was just his nature. A pure soul in contrast to his own warped and distorted one. Further proof of his own internal ugliness and corruption. And yet he could not look away, compelled to try and understand, to look inside and see how things work, as he might one of his automatons. Perhaps if he could discover what is was, where his own broken cog might be, he could somehow be fixed? More likely he would find that his own parts were missing or broken beyond repair. At times, he found himself wondering who was the pupil and who was the teacher.

“Are you an Angel, monsieur?”

The question caught him off guard. Dropped lightly in the middle of a complicated candenza, bringing with it a rush of painful, beautiful memories. 

Erik bit out a low, mirthless laugh. ‘No, my boy. I am most decidedly  _ not _ an Angel.’ His lip curled back into a momentary sneer. He had tried to be one once, no, perhaps more accurate he had imitated one once, there was nothing angelic in his intention, not truthfully. Look where that had gotten him.

Lifting his hands, he almost gestured to his face and bitterly retorted ‘Have you ever seen anything less angelic?’ but the words died unspoken on his lips as he looked down into small bright eyes staring up at him from the boy’s twisted, purple face. No, he would not, he could not inflict that pain on the boy too. Instead, he simply gestured forwards, holding his long, thin hands out for the boy to see. 

‘As you see, I am real enough.’

The boy smiled knowingly and shook his head.

‘That does not signify,’ he replied, returning his attention once more to the piano, his fingers lazily picking out a melody, no doubt something else of his own composition.

‘Indeed?’ Erik smiled sadly, his mind wandering back to another young child, another angel, oh, so long ago. He shook his head. Enough of this nonsense. He should not be indulging himself in this way. Something about the boy was making him soft.

‘No sir’ the boy replied matter of factly. ‘My father was an angel, and I am real, as you see.’ - he demonstrated with a particularly loud flourish on the keys.

Erik’s heart gave something between a squeeze and a crack. An angel. How might his life have been different if his mother had adopted the same line? Had explained the absence of a father, his difference, his  _ shame _ as something devine rather than diabolical? What kind of a man might he have become? What kind of life would have been his? And yet, here was this boy, this brilliant, hideous, monstrously deformed, and yet somehow beautiful boy, hidden away from the world, just the same. Perhaps, in the long run, things would not have been much different at all. The world has no place for ones such as we. 

The boy eyed him curiously, continuing to play, a soft, haunting, yet hopeful melody, achingly beautiful in it’s simplicity.

Erik gave him what he hoped was an encouraging smile. Let the boy believe in angels. Better he did not know about the true nature of the world, not yet at least.

‘You do not believe me’, the child stated simply. 

Erik frowned.

‘I can tell’, he continued. ‘Mama does that same smile too- when she thinks I am making things up.’ His fingers paused over the keys, and his small misshapen face became suddenly serious. ‘It is true though. I know it. Mama told me.

She told me that long ago, before I was born, she was visited by an Angel of Music. He would come to her each night, and they would sing together. 

My Mama has the the most beautiful voice, you know’ he stated matter of factly, ‘ She says her voice was a gift from the Angel. And then one day, she had to leave the Angel behind. But when she did, the Angel gave me to her, so she could remember him, and keep him with her always. She says that she knows this because I have the music in my head too, you see, and because, well, because the Angel also had a funny face. Just like me.’ 

He looked up and smiled beatifically, ‘And just like you monsieur! So I thought, perhaps, you might be an Angel too!’

Erik’s face drained of what little colour it had and he felt his stomach drop from within him. His hands, still hovering frozen in the air half outstretched towards the boy fluttered spasmodically, and he grasped at his lapels to steady them.

‘Where did you say you were from?’ he asked, straining to keep the shake from his voice.

The boy frowned, looking puzzled. ‘I didn’t monsieur.’ he said simply. ‘Mama and I have lived all over. I do not remember the beginning, I was very small you see, but Mama tells me we came to America on a big ship. I have always loved the sea. Do you love the sea sir?’ his eyes, previously trained on Erik’s white face drifted slowly back towards the keyboard, as if he were pulled by something unseen. His hands once again moving across the keyboard picking out a lilting melody. ‘Before that, I think, we were in Paris. At the opera.’ he sighed, ‘I think I should have liked to live in an opera house.’

Erik’s knees began to tremble. Paris? The opera house? An Angel of Music? This could not be. It was not possible. Christine Daae, no, he corrected himself, Madame de Chagny, is dead. She died, he reminded himself. You left her, she married the boy, and she died. It could not be. It simply could not be. And yet?

Staggering back suddenly, Erik stumbled away from the boy, blindly heading toward the door.

‘Monsieur?’ he said, questioningly.

‘I…’ Erik tried to force words into his constricting throat. Tried to piece together something coherent, but all his thoughts jumbled and screamed one thing over and over again. Christine, Christine, Christine!

‘Forgive me,’ he stuttered, ‘I have to go’ - and with that he bolted from the room, the boy’s hurt and confused gaze following him.

Blindly, Erik stumbled down the corridor, fumbling towards the stage. It could not possibly be, but he felt his heart would burst for want of knowing. Trembling, he climbed his way into the catwalk above the stage, and hid, waiting, hardly daring to breathe.

His wait was not long. Below him the tumblers completed their act, and bowing, flipped off the stage. And then, she was there - her black cloak and veil obscuring her face and figure from all. It could not be, it simply could not, he told himself over, and over again as she took her spot centre stage. The music swelled in anticipation, and his heartbeat seemed to pause as the soprano took a deep breath, and then with one, clear, one perfect, sublime and angelic note, Erik’s world came crashing down. Ten years of longing, of pain, of loss and loneliness came washing over him and he collapsed to his knees, great wracking, silent sobs shaking his frame.

Below on the stage, as the last note faded on her song, the soprano turned to leave the stage, and halted momentarily looking up. From above, she could have sworn she heard a distant and oh! so familiar voice give a tortured whisper, ‘Oh, Christine!’ 

Shivering, she shook her head, and walked away.


	3. Old Friends

The theatre was dark and silent around him before he was able to stir himself and return to Phantasma. He couldn’t say how long he had sat there, nor could he really recall the journey home. He had spent that night, and then countless more pacing back and forth in his ayrie trying to piece together his shattered thoughts, weeping and cursing himself until his eyes had no more tears and he could only offer up long, shuddering sighs.

She was alive. Christine was alive. This in itself was a difficult concept to grasp. He had spent so many nights haunted by half heard whispers and ghostly snatches of song, reminding himself over and over again that she was gone and he would never hear her again. Forcing himself to accept that he existed in a world where Christine Daae was no more. It had not been an easy concept to accept - his heart looked for her around every corner, his flesh ached for her every moment. He had schooled it hard this last ten years to accept and understand the loss, and now the realisation that he had lost the possibility of ten years with her hit him like a physical blow.

Then there was the boy. The thought of it forced the air from his lungs until he felt like he was drowning. There was no other possible explanation, everything pointed to it, but he could not bring himself to think the word ‘Son’. Couldn’t bear to think of the pain and the hardship and the isolation that Christine and the boy must have endured all because of his accursed seed. What had they endured because of him? What kind of life could the boy expect? Blessed with the gift of music, but cursed with his father’s goblin like face? Yet even so he could not deny that somehow he was so, so beautiful. And he had not been there to protect them, to provide for them. 

And yet, had he known, what would have done? Yes, he would have loved them. Loved them fiercely and with every fibre of his being - it was the only way he knew how. But how would he have loved? The man he was ten years ago only knew one way to love, and that was jealously, violently, oppressively. He would have locked them away, lashing out in violence and bloodshed at anyone he perceived to be a threat to him. Yes, he knew that to be true. Ten years of nothing but remembering and regretting had at least taught him that. He had loved Christine, and yet he had lied to her, manipulated her, threatened her and abused her. His idea of courting her had to been to kidnap her and threaten death upon the man she loved - what kind of choice was that? 

Pitiful creature that he was, even when she had given herself willingly to him he had treasured up the wonder and joy to himself, and too cowardly to face what might come next he had left her, abandoning her to her fate. He told himself he was protecting her from a life in the shadow by letting her go back to the boy, yet even that, his first and most selfless gesture was now tainted with the knowledge that he had left with her the seed of her destruction and downfall. Even as he loved he caused destruction and pain - perhaps it was better that he had not known.

Still, even as he admitted this to himself he knew that now he had seen her again he would not be able to let them go. 

But how? 

How to reach her, how to tell her, how to reveal himself to her after all this time? 

Once it would have been simple - he would have hidden himself away in the shadows and called to her with his music, weaving a spell with his voice as only he knew how. Trapped her and held her, flattening anyone who dared to stand in his path. He could do it still, if he wanted. It would be easy - he had money and power, and respect now. Nobody would bat an eyelid if he chose to hold a simple vaudeville singer to his will. But he would not, he could not. Not again.

So how? How do normal people deal with these things, he wondered. Do normal people deal with these things, he thought bitterly. No, it was probably not usual to have toreveal yourself to your former pupil, lover, captive, whom you abandoned and thought had been dead for ten years, and who may possibly have borne your child. He doubted that even fifty years experience of living in the world above would have prepared him for this.

What was he to say?

‘Oh, Hello Christine - I see you are not dead then. How have things been? Oh, and by the way, is that my son?’ Yes, that would go down very well. ‘By the bye, did I mention that I am still hopelessly in love with you?’ Ha. If she didn’t scream and run at the sight of his very face again that would be sure to do the trick.

What to do? Where to look for inspiration? Not operas - he suspected that may have been part of his mistake the first time round. Perhaps there would have been less screaming, less heartache, less death, if he had taken just a little time to understand what the world was like outside of a theatre. If the world outside of the theatre would have let him take a little time to get to know it.

In the end it had been Miss Fleck, reliable, practical Miss Fleck who had been the answer to all of his questions.

If she or any other of his team had been surprised or alarmed by his prolonged absence from the business of his park, or by his dishevelled and worn appearance when he finally re-emerged from his nights of pacing, she did not say it. He realised that he had to speak to someone, the portraits and half finished automatons in his quarters had thus far yielded no practical advice, just reflections of his own, empty, useless self.

‘Miss Fleck,’ he began uncertainly. ‘I wonder if you might assist me? There is a singer, that is, you mentioned a singer, with the disfigured child? And I should so very much like…’ he trailed off. Very much like what? For her to love me, was that what he was about to say?

‘Of course master,’ the aerialist replied, startling him. What could she possibly mean, ‘of course’? How could she possibly know?

‘Shall I have a contract prepared and request a meeting?’ she continued.

Erik exhaled forcefully. Of course! This was what he knew, this was what he did! Protecting and nurturing performers within this strange little family that he had constructed for himself. As a man he might not be able to provide the love and support he so desperately wished to give her, but as Mr Y, master of Phantasma he could provide a place for them both, safe within his own little world. He would not expect or demand anything more, but this little, at least, he could give.

‘Thank you Miss Fleck,’ he said, hoping his voice did not betray the emotion which was coursing through his veins. Grateful for his loyal family of freaks, grateful for the opportunity to be able to welcome them to it.

He turned to walk away ‘Oh, and Miss Fleck,’ he turned hesitating, anxious not to appear over eager. ‘I think a private suite within the hotel might be more appropriate? For the mother and child? Rather than sharing one of the dormitories backstage.’

Miss Fleck nodded prefunctorilly, and he strode away. If a knowing smile ghosted over her lips as he left, he did not see it.

The next two days passed in a blur. He threw himself back into the running of his shows with even greater energy than before, anxious that everything should be perfect, grateful for the distraction it provided. At night he returned to ayrie, seized by an overwhelming urge to create, music flowing through him as it had not done in many years.

At last the day came. Her contract at the vaudeville theatre due to complete in just a few days, she agreed to meet with the mysterious Mr Y. He watched from the window of his private rooms in the ayrie, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. At last, he saw it, a small black veiled figure approaching the gates of the park, the boy in tow, face obscured with a wide brimmed hat and large scarf, he noted. A moment longer and he heard the voices on the stair, two light treads following Miss Fleck’s familiar patter, then the door to his outer chambers opened, and he heard Miss Fleck announce:

‘Master, your guests have arrived,’ before discretely returning to the anteroom where he had instructed her to wait. A true gem, Miss Fleck, he thought, marvelling at the shaking of his own hands. She had been in the business long enough to know when to ask questions, and when to simply obey. He must remember to thank her - or perhaps provide her with a new act to replay her. Yes, he thought, she should have more opportunity to shine.

Body trembling, heart pounding, his throat dry as dust, Erik took one last settling breath, pushed open the door, and entered the room.

Within the boy and his mother, still clothed in black and veiled were stood, close together, the mother’s head bowed to whisper in her son’s ear.

On hearing the door open the boy whipped his head round and looked up.

‘Monsieur Erik!’ he shrieked with delight, and capered over in his direction, flinging himself at Erik’s waist in a fierce hug. The mother outstretched a restraining hand, and then looking up seemed to finally take in his presence and froze. Erik’s hand fluttered hesitantly above the boy’s head, his eyes fixed intently on the mother.

‘Mama!’ the boy continued, seemingly oblivious to the tense frames and low breathing of the adults around him. ‘Mama look! It is my angel! Come Monsieur, you must meet my Mama.’ he pulled at Erik’s hand, willing him to step closer. 

Erik’s legs refused to move. Rooted to the spot, he continued to stand, dumb, staring, lips parted in anticipation, his eyes pleading she would understand. That she would not run.

‘Gustave!’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘Please.’ - she held her hand out to him.

Hesitating the boy released Erik’s hand and returned to his mother’s side, his face full of disappointment.

Erik’s heart squeezed painfully at the sound of her voice. ‘Gustave,’ he thought. He had not even thought to ask the boy’s name, he had been so taken up with their similarities, with their music. He recalled now that that had been her father’s name. It was fitting.

‘But Mama,’ Gustave said, somewhat petulantly, ‘This is Erik! He is my friend. My Angel of Music. Just like you described Mama!’.

‘Your Angel of Music?’ she asked, her trembling voice sounded hollow, almost dead.

‘Yes, Mama. He has been teaching me! He came every day to help with my music. Until, well, until he stopped. Why did you stop Monsieur?’

Across from him, the mother still stood, stock still. He could feel her eyes beneath the vale boring into his face. Those eyes, that had haunted him these last ten years! If only he could see them, speak to her, make her understand. ‘Wrong!’ thought Erik, ‘no, no this is all going wrong. This is not how it should be! What on earth must she think of me? Why can’t I speak? Why can’t I say anything?’ His tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth and he looked helplessly, his hands held out, palms upturned, trembling violently in a supplicating gesture.

‘Your music?’ she asked, her voice still carrying that dead, hollow tone,

‘Yes!’ the boy cried, and spotting the piano in the centre of the room grabbed Erik’s hand and began to pull. ‘Look, see!’

Somehow, Erik felt his feet moving, felt himself being dragged towards the instrument, his eyes never leaving the mother’s face. She stood, still as a statue, and made no move to stop them as the boy settled himself at the piano, pulling Erik down to his side.

‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘perhaps this is best. I cannot speak, but perhaps my music still can.’

The boy looked up at him questioningly, and Erik nodded once stiffly, his hands settled on the keys, and together, they began to play.

It was a piece that they had been working on together in their lessons. One of Erik’s own compositions, written, as all his music these days was, during one of those tormented evenings when Christine’s ghost had seemed to plague him. And now he played it for her, played it with this strange child. This impossible child whose presence he could not bring himself to allow to explain. He poured all his hope and longing into it, tears streaming down his ruined face as his fingers flew across the keys.

If the boy noticed that his friend and mentor’s playing took on a different quality he did not comment on it. Nor did he comment on the gentle sobs that came from the player as he sat beside him. Instead, he played, played with that beauty and fluidity of expression that Erik had found so enchanting the first time he had heard him. And when it was done, he simply looked at them both, and smiled.

‘See, Mama?’ he said simply, taking her hand and patting it once. And then, as if there was nothing unusual in all the world for him to find himself sitting between a gently sobbing masked man, and his mother, he returned his attention to the keys, and continued to play, that soft, haunting melody that Erik had come to recognise as the song within his head.

Slowly, hardly knowing what he did, Erik rose from the piano, and looked imploringly at the veiled woman before him, willing her to understand. Willing her to accept.

In turn, as appearing to wake from a dream, she lifted a tremulous hand to her veil, and lifted it back.

Ah! That face. Had it been a thousand years Erik would still have known that face. Those eyes, which haunted him each time he closed his own. And there at last she was, standing before him, a slow tear trickling down her perfect cheek.

‘Christine,’ he whispered - her name, half statement, half reverent prayer.

‘You…’ she responded, her voice laced with confusion, pain, and was that fear?

Erik flinched, rocking back slightly on heels and glancing nervously at Gustav, whose eyes flicked curiously between the two of them.

Noticing his glance, she appeared to recollect herself, and continued hesitatingly, ‘... must be Mr Y, I presume?’

‘Indeed,’ he responded, releasing a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Madame…?’ He eyed her imploringly, willing her to play along.

‘Madame Skygga’, she muttered, her eyes looking everywhere but his own.

He flinched slightly at the name. A shadow? Oh Christine, you should not have had to hide. Is this because of me? Have I forced you into hiding?

He took a deep breath, steeling himself, reminding himself to focus and remember what he had promised himself only this morning. Expect nothing, demand nothing, offer the little you can give.

‘Thank you for agreeing to meet with me Madame. I believe my associates explained that I had a proposition to put to you? I have the paperwork drawn up here’ - he gestured to a sheaf of papers neatly stacked on the side. Glancing again at the child he continued, ‘Would you prefer to discuss this here, or should we adjourn to my office?’ He gestured at a door directly to his left.

Christine hesitated, glacing repeatedly between Erik and her son, clearly reluctant to leave him, but also reluctant to say more in front of the boy.

‘Of course,’ responded Erik, sensing her hesitation immediately, ‘my associate would be more than happy to supervise the young monsieur while you are gone.’ He stepped to the door and opened it, gesturing for someone without to enter.

‘May I present Miss Fleck - my right hand assistant,’ he gestured to an elaborately dressed diminutive person, who scurried through the door and gave an elaborate bow. ‘Miss Fleck is one of my star performers,’ he explained, ‘An extraordinary aerialist. I believe you are already acquainted? Miss Fleck informed me you had performed at the same theatre in the past.’

Christine dipped her head in acknowledgement, her eyes still darting about the room, as if uncertain what might come next.

‘Of course, you are welcome to continue to play the piano,’ he continued, turning to the boy, ‘and we would only be in the next room. Should you need your Mama, you would only have to call.’ His eyes searched for hers, pleading. He had done everything in his power to ensure that she felt safe and comfortable within this meeting. Everything, of course except for removing his own person - that object of horror he was unable to change.

Shakily Christine drew a breath and nodded her head. ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Gustave, do you mind? I will only be next door if you need me.’

The boy smiled broadly, returning his attention to the piano. ‘Of course Mama,’ he replied, ‘I will practise the pieces that Monsieur Erik was teaching me before. Then you can tell me if I have improved monsieur.’

Erik felt his colour rising under the questioning gaze of the mother, and simply swallowed and nodded his assent, afraid of the emotion his voice might portray. 

Crossing to his office door, he held it open and waited for Christine to pass through, before entering himself and closing the door behind them. Two old friends, alone at last after ten long years.


	4. Just Erik

The door closed with a deafening click, and for one heavy drawn out moment the two of them stood facing each other from opposite sides of the room, both staring, neither daring to move.

He knew he ought to make the first move, say something reassuring, or something explanatory to clear away the tension which hung cloyingly in the air, but he could not. Instead all he could do was listen to the blood in his veins screaming her name with every pulse, unsure whether he was about to faint, or burst into tears, or simply fling himself at her and never let her go again.

After what felt like an age, but could have only been a matter of seconds he finally gathered his wits, whetted his lips and spoke the only words he could think to say.

‘Can I offer you some tea?’ he winced as the words came out, cringing at his own cowardice.

It was enough, however, to stir life into his companion. She blinked, the dazed expression on her pale face slowly transforming to one of pain and rage.

‘How dare you,’ she hissed. Her voice, barely loud enough to carry across the room, stinging him with the force of a thousand cuts.

‘How _dare_ you.’ she continued. ‘After all these years of silence, you think you can command me again? You dare to use _my son_ as a weapon against me? To see him behind my back and warp him to your will with your poisonous stories?’ 

With each word she seemed to grow in size and anger, stepping towards him until at last she was standing right over him as he cowered against the door, arms raised slightly in front of him as if she had physically whipped him.

‘Forgive me,’ he moaned, hot tears already falling unbidden over his cheeks. ‘Christine, forgive me. _I did not know…’_

She stepped back, a puzzled expression flitting across her face.

‘I thought you dead,’ he continued, ‘ _I saw you buried._ ’

Christine’s face fell, her lips forming a small ‘o’ of surprise.

‘Then how do you explain this?’ she cried, gesturing to between the two of them ‘How do I suddenly find myself summoned into the presence of the great and mysterious Mr Y. Why does my son speak of an Angel of Music? Who is this ‘Monsieur Erik’ to which he refers? Who _are_ you?’

‘Me,’ he whispered softly, his voice sounding strangely small and childish to his own ears.

‘You?’ she repeated, frowning, ‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Erik,’ he explained, ‘Erik is me, that is to say, I am Erik.’ he spread his palms in front of him. ‘It is my name.’

‘You,’ she stuttered, ‘I did not - I mean…’ her voice trailed off into silence.

Erik sighed and crossed to his desk chair, sinking into it. He gestured to the chair opposite inviting Christine to do the same. Haltingly she obliged.

He took a deep steadying breath, then lifted a shaking hand to the side of his face. Opposite him he saw Christine blanche - he looked down at his lap so as not to see the reaction on her face, and then slowly, tentatively removed his mask, hearing her sharp intake of breath as he lay it on the desk before him. There - he thought. No more masks, no more disguises, no more false pretenses.

‘I have had many names in my time. Mr Y,’ he waved his hand in an ornate mock bow, ‘Opera Ghost, Phantom, Angel, The Living Corpse, The Devil’s Child,’ his voice slid into a sneer. ‘Some of them I chose, a mask, if you will, to hide my purpose behind. Others, I was gifted - some gifts were more pleasant than others, naturally,’ he nodded at her. ‘Erik is the name I gave myself when I was alone. When I could at least pretend I did not need the mask.’ He sighed, his fingers subconsciously worrying at the edge of his desk, beating out a strange tune to himself.

‘It is not a name I normally reveal to others. You will recall, I am sure, I am not naturally a sociable man, although, I have, of late, been attempting to mend my ways.’ he let out a small, mirthless chuckle, ‘There are those who may question the company I keep, freaks and monsters like myself by all appearances to most, but on the whole I find it suits me well.’

He looked up at her, sitting almost statuelike across from him. Her face a blend of pain, curiosity and confusion.

He inhaled deeply, and then plunged on in a businesslike way, keen to lay the truth out bare once and for all.

‘Your son first came to my attention about a month ago. I have something of a reputation now, you see, amongst the - how can I put this delicately - _freaks._ They seek me out, or I find them. It is a mutually supportive agreement, you understand. It was Miss Fleck who first mentioned him to me - a ‘hideously deformed boy’ - no, please madam, allow me a moment if you will - a ‘hideously deformed boy’ without outstanding musical abilities.

'I’m sure you can imagine how this description resonated with me.’ His voice faltered, ‘Even now, with my little family of misfits around me, it has been quite some time since I have spoken with anyone who truly felt akin to me.’ he could not resist giving her a meaningful look. The modest blush which crept into her cheeks told him she understood him. He pushed on.

‘I was merely curious at first - I confess, I secreted myself within the theatre to observe him while you performed - I am, I’m sure you recall, quite adept at remaining unseen when I need to. I did my utmost to avoid you, of course. I did not wish to arouse any suspicion or expectation at the time. Of course, I did not know who I was avoiding. Had I known then what I know now - well, that is of little consequence. What matters is that I came.’ His eyes sought out her own and dared her to look at him.

‘What I saw… Oh, Christine! It was like looking into a mirror, and yet not. My own person seems such a fetid, muddy puddle in comparison to his clear, untainted self - but I could not deny the similarity. After that I was entranced. I could not help returning again and again. He is such a child!’ He rose quickly as if carried by some external energy and crossed to her, kneeling at her feet. She eyed him warily, like quarry judging whether to run.

‘I never meant any harm, you must believe me,’ he beseeched, ‘I only wanted to see if I could be of any service to him. I was not playing any role - I was only Erik. Just Erik. I had no idea…’ his voice trailed off.

Christine nodded, her posture relaxing slightly. Her fingers twisted within her lap as they always did when she was anxious - a familiar gesture he recognised from so long ago.

‘So why am I here?’ she questioned him, more gently than he was expecting.

‘He asked me if I was an Angel’ he stated simply.

‘Ah.’ she replied.

‘In truth, he told me that his father was an Angel. An Angel of Music to be exact - and he asked if I was one too… It seems I was not the only one of us to notice our similarities…’

‘Aah,’ she repeated.

‘From there the trail was laid. I simply followed it, and at its end I found you - my living, breathing Christine...’ he finished, his voice cracking anew at the memory.

For a moment there was silence between them, filled only by the sound of their own breathing. A delicious, almost peaceful moment.

Reluctantly, Erik spoke and broke it. ‘Christine, I feel I already know the answer to this, but I must ask all the same. The boy, the child… Gustave - is he?’ 

A small nod was the only reply.

A strangled sob broke from his throat, and he felt himself crumple to the floor. He had already known, the similarities were too strong for it to be merely coincidence, and yet in that simple confirmation the full enormity of the truth came crashing upon him.

‘A son!’ he cried, ‘My son!’ 

A small hand landed on his shoulder - the touch surprisingly firm given its size, and Erik looked up through puffy eyes, rising to stand opposite her once more. She offered him a hanky, and he almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation, until he recollected he was without his mask, and a wave of shame hit him. What must he look like! His ruined face a mess of tears and unspeakable, revolting wetness. Without thinking his right hand shot up to cover his face, but before he could begin to turn away the hand returned to his shoulder, arresting him and pulling his hand away from his face.

He froze, unable to meet her eyes, his own darting in panic back and forth across the floor, yet still she held his hand firm in hers, and with the other she reached slowly across the desk, picking up his mask and placing it gently over his face

He sighed and looked up again into her eyes, the cool porcelain of the mask calming him by degrees. In the silence, the sound of piano floated through from the adjoining room.

'Christine,’ he whispered. ‘How? Why?’

Her lip curled momentarily, and she bit back a sarcastic retort. Surely even he knew how these things came about? 

Beneath the mask his eyes, dark, brown and glittering pleaded with her, and she was reminded suddenly, painfully, of a small boy, seeking to understand the strange world around him. 

‘You left me.’ She replied. Her voice sounding strangely flat and calm over the pulse thudding in her ears.

‘I loved you, and you _left_ me.’ She repeated.

Erik stepped back, shaking his head, unable to comprehend what he was hearing.

‘Yes - I loved you. I won't deny it. I would have followed you anywhere,’ she continued, a quiet passion entering her voice. ‘ I sought you out. The choice, if you can call it a choice, you gave me that night in the basement of the opera - it ate at my soul. Of course, I loved Raoul, but I loved you too, and the thought that by choosing one I was destroying the other, it almost killed me.

I could not rest until I had seen you one last time. I had to be sure. And when I found you - your _voice,_ I could not stop myself from trembling, and I knew then, even before what came after, I _knew_ that a life without you, without my Angel of Music was a life I could not contemplate.

I was selfish, and greedy, but in that moment it felt so perfect and that night I decided. _I_ decided. And you took that away from me. When I woke you were gone. I called for you, cried for you, looked everywhere for you, but you were not there. I must have waited hours before I realised you were not going to return, and I realised I had no choice any more.’ There was no anger in her voice, just hollow resignation and despair.

‘Christine, forgive me, I was not worthy,’ he began.

‘Don’t you _dare_ ’ she hissed. ‘Don’t you dare make this about you, and your self pity! It was _my_ choice. _Mine -_ and you took it and left me with nothing else.’ 

He gulped pitifully, and clutched at his own ribcage in horror.

‘I returned to Raoul, and I married him, of course’ she continued, in a matter of fact tone. ‘He could at least offer me a comfortable life, and he loved me, in his way - or at least, he loved the idea of me. His ‘Little Lotte’. 

‘It was not long after the wedding that I suspected I was with child. He was delighted of course - hoping for a little Vicomte to continue the line. There were still those of the family that disapproved of him marrying a common chorus girl, of course, but this was the answer to all their prayers. If I could prove to be of good breeding stock, produce a handsome, healthy little heir, so much the better - and naturally, if they kept me in child, like some kind of prize heifer, then I could not disgrace them by doing something so common as singing on a stage.’ She snorted.

‘I tried so hard to be contented, but I missed the music so much. Naturally, they mistook the reason for my melancholy - they said I was tired, and they made me rest, but I wonder if even then they had begun to realise something was very wrong. Sometimes I would catch myself hoping it was yours so that somehow I got to keep you, and then the very thought of the deception would make me feel sick. Oh! How I hated myself in those moments.

Erik gazed at her, his head tilted to the side like a curious puppy, hanging off her every word.

‘And then, at last, he came, and suddenly none of it mattered any more,’ her voice softened into a sigh. ‘I knew before they even put him into my arms. The hushed whispers. The gasps and mutterings. The strange silence from everyone, and then his earsplitting wails. I could tell at once he had inherited your voice,’ she said, chuckling fondly, before recollecting herself, her voice turning fierce.

‘They tried to take him away. I was so tired, and it hurt so much, but I would not let them, so they put him in my arms and I looked into his face, and I saw… Your eyes, staring back up at me.’

‘Oh Christine,’ whispered Erik.

‘After that, I saw noone for at least a day. I suppose they were all in conference, trying to decide what to do with me. At last, he came in - he would not even look at the cot. He just stared at me, with those big, stupid eyes, and then he had the gall to ask me what he was to do with 'it'!

‘I suppose I could have tried to dissemble - to claim innocence, but really it was too much. You’ve seen how much he favours you. So I simply told him that whatever he decided to do with ‘it’, he would have to decide to do with me too - and then it all became clear.

‘Oh! How he ranted and raved and wailed about his situation. His position! What would he tell people, how would he ever face them again! In short, he bemoaned everything except the loss of his beloved wife.’ She snorted. ‘Apparently, Little Lotte had been worth the effort to catch, but a chorus line slut who had lain with the opera ghost, of all people, was not something to regret.’

Erik made a small squeaking sound, as if the air in his lungs were being slowly squeezed out of him.

‘You know,’ she added conversationally, looking up into his face ‘He never even asked me if you’d forced yourself on me? I thought at least he might presume that, although I could never have let him be deceived for long. But no, it was as if he had known all along that really, he had been my second choice.’

She shook her head, and laughed.

‘So, really, when it came down to it, there was nothing left for me to do but die.’

Erik choked.

‘Not literally, of course. That was not Raoul’s style’ she threw Erik a knowing glance. ‘But I could be Christine, Vicomtesse de Changy no more, and realistically, it was better for all concerned if she simply ceased to be. 

‘Women die in childbirth all the time,’ she continued, her tone matter of fact ‘So it really was not that hard to pull off. Once I had suggested it to Raoul, and convinced him that I had no intention of burdening him or presuming upon him in any way, I think he managed it rather charmingly. He bribed the doctor to sign the papers, threw an elaborate funeral, and before I knew it, I was a ghost!’ She laughed brightly - apparently enjoying the growing alarm on Erik’s face.

‘Of course, I couldn’t be seen - I’d been on stage and my face was too recognisable, so I took to wearing black, and covering my face, and haunting theatres instead. It seems, in times of crisis, you always return to what you know,’ she continued, gesturing towards Erik and smiling apologetically.

‘We could not stay in Paris, so I began to travel around. At first, I was nursing Gustave, so I took in sewing work, and then later, when he was old enough to be left for an hour or two, I began to think about returning to the stage. I suppose it was inevitable, it’s all I’ve ever really known.

‘I could not stay in opera. The world is too small, the minds too closed, so I started to cast my net wider, playing sideshows and music halls, always moving about to avoid attracting too much attention. I will not pretend it was easy, but we had each other, and we made do with that.

‘At first, I kept Gustave hidden. I was afraid of what people might say to him - I did not want him to be…’ her voice trailed off, and she gazed at Erik. He nodded.

‘But eventually I realised I could not keep him locked up in the dark for the rest of his life. The older he grew the brighter he seemed to shine. I have never known another mind like his! Except, of course… Well.

‘They say America is the land of opportunity, and so I decided to seek my own. We took passage on a ship and left to create ourselves anew. I took a new name, and started to play the Vaudeville circuit - Gustave made friends amongst those willing to overlook his differences, and he learned to play, and draw and sing. By day, we are together, and at night, while I perform, he creates. We stay in one place, until things get too ugly, and then we move on.’ She looked thoughtful ‘The ugliness does not seem to affect him, as it does me. He has an unfailing talent to see what is beautiful in everyone and everything. I am not sure where he gets it.’

‘I could have lost the disguise, of course. I am unlikely to be recognised here, and it has been so many years, but I find here that it serves me very well. In Europe talk of a veiled singer and her strange child would see me shunned from theatre doors, but in America! Notoriety breeds fame, I suppose, and I must confess, I have grown fond of theatrics.

Erik quirked an eyebrow, and she returned a wry smile in response.

‘It has it’s other benefits too,’ she continued, her voice darkening, ‘a single female in the theatrical world will always attract certain - attentions? A single female with a child is perhaps an even easier target - there is no virtue left to preserve. But a single female in a veil, and a child with a deformed face? Well, who knows what horrors might lurk beneath! I have found that is enough to deter all but the most determined, and for them…’ she produced a flick knife from within her bodice and flourished it briefly, before returning it to its concealment. ‘You will see sir, I have come a long way from fainting at mannequins.’

Erik shuddered, and hugged his arms to him, his fingers itching momentarily for the return of his lasso. 

‘And, so, we are as you find us.’ she finished, a tone of defiance in her voice. ‘We have travelled long and far, and we make do. It may not be what I would have wished for from my life, but I would not trade him for anything, or anyone.’

She raised her chin and stared at him squarely.

‘Oh, Christine. Forgive me. Forgive me for all that I have done and all that I did not do. But more than that, thank you. _Thank You._ ’ he whispered, his voice almost rapturous.

‘For what?’ she asked, confusion showing on her face.

‘For keeping him safe. Guiding him. Nurturing him. For _loving_ him.’

‘I am his mother,’ she hissed indignantly.

He nodded slowly, and the expression of pain and sadness which passed over his face made the breath catch in Christine’s throat.

‘It was not a courtesy my own mother ever extended to me’ he replied simply. ‘I cannot help but wonder…’ His eyes drifted to the door, through which the sounds of piano could still be heard. He shook his head sadly.

‘No matter. That is the past, and we cannot change it, however we might wish we could. I did not bring you here to rake over past actions. I wish to speak of your future. Yours, and the boys…’

She flinched visibly.

‘Please, be assured, I have no intention of forcing you into anything. I simply wish to offer you a choice. Goodness knows I have managed to remove so many from you before. It is the least I can do. Your future shall be yours to decide, but I should like - if you will permit me the liberty - to be of some assistance.’ He placed the contract, hastily discarded in their earlier conversation, on the desk in front of her, smoothing out the crumples where his hand had gripped that little too tightly in his anxious state.

‘I am in a position to offer you employment, accomodation, and the possibility of an education for the boy.’ 

Christine opened her mouth to protest

‘You will be at no obligation to me. As you will see, it is all legal and above board. A service we offer to all our most valued performers.’

She snorted in derision. 

‘You offer to pay for the education of all the bastard children of your performers then?’ she replied, her tone laced with sarcasm.

A look of pain and anger flickered across his face, and for a fleeting moment he appeared as he had in the past - dark and terrible. 

‘Please,’ he bit out, ‘do not refer to yourself or our son in that way.’

‘She quailed - her weight shifting subtly, her feet preparing to flee.

He sighed and ran his hands over his head in frustration. ‘I am not in the habit of begetting children with all my performers.’ he explained, quietly. ‘But since you ask, I have in the past taken on apprentices. Young performers with promising skills, who might otherwise have been shunned and overlooked elsewhere. I do not mean to take him from you Christine. I only wish to help’

‘This is an act of charity?’ she asked, her voice incredulous.

‘Charity!’ he bit out a laugh. ‘Christine, should you choose to accept it would be you who were bestowing the gift. To have you sing on my humble stage would be an honour beyond words.

‘It is a choice Christine, and it is yours to make.’ He rose and crossed to the door.

‘Come,’ he said, opening it and gesturing to her. ‘You do not have to decide now.’

Cautiously, she passed through, eyeing him with wonder and suspicion.

‘I took the liberty of requesting that Miss Fleck show you some of the park,’ he looked at her, almostly shyly. ‘I hope you do not mind? I thought perhaps it might help you decide. You might talk to some of the other performers?’

At the piano Gustave stopped playing and turned to face them excitedly.

‘Oh Mama! Can we see the park? May I ride the rides Monsieur?’

Erik looked to Christine questioningly and she gave him a small nod. He could not help responding with a hopeful grin as the boy bounced with excitement on the piano stool.

‘If that is what you wish young Monsieur, then it shall be done. Miss Fleck, be sure to instruct the staff to give our young friend access to whatever he desires. With his Mama’s approval, of course,’ he added, noting Christine’s widening eyes.

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘You are very kind.’

‘It is the least I could do,’ he replied, bowing gracefully.

She eyed him curiously. ‘You _have_ changed,’ she murmured quietly, almost to herself.

‘I should hope so,’ came the gentle reply. ‘Ten years ago my own selfish behaviour lost me everything I held most dear. I have worked every day to ensure that never happens again.’

He walked with the group to the door, following Miss Fleck’s lead, Gustave capering excitedly ahead of them.

‘Until next time, Madame Skugga,’ he said, with a respectful nod of his head.

Christine looked up into his eyes, her mouth slack with wonder.

‘ _Who are you?’_ she repeated.

His eyes closed momentarily, a soft sigh escaping from his lips, before he replied

‘Erik. Just Erik.’

She nodded.

‘Thank you - Erik…’ she seemed to roll the name around her mouth as she spoke it, testing how it tasted on her tongue. ‘No matter how painful the intervening years have been, there are some moments of the past that I find I cannot bring myself to regret. No matter how hard I may have tried.’

Hearing his name from those lips was enough to almost undo him. He felt his throat restrict painfully, every nerve in his body vibrating to the sound. What was it she was trying to tell him?

She held her hand out to him shyly, and he took it, hardly knowing what he did. He did not miss the rush of colour to her face, her slightly parted lips, the hitched intake of breath as he raised it and pressed her small fingers to his ruined lips in a gentle kiss.

His eyes burned into her, and she looked away, flustered, before turning suddenly and following her son and Miss Fleck out of the door.

He closed the door gently behind them and leaned against it. His heart soaring.

‘It is enough,’ he thought, ‘if that is all she is ever able to give, it is enough.’ 

And yet his treacherous heart could not help but yearn for more.


	5. My God who is this man?

Miss Fleck was not, by nature, a demonstrative being. In truth, they none of them were - the freaks and misfits. They had, over time learned to be guarded and close, a natural defence mechanism for the overlooked and abused. She was, however, fiercely loyal.

She was also decidedly not stupid.

In the eight years she had known the master, first on the sideshow circuit, and then later when she came to join him in his merry band of misfits, she had seen enough fits of rage, mania and melancholy to know that he felt deeply, but she had never seen him as he had been over the past month. Her suspicions had been roused when he had first raised the topic of the mysterious soprano and her boy - there had been something almost schoolboyish and endearing in his discomfort in broaching it with her. This afternoon only served to confirm it.

Nobody who saw the way the master and the soprano look at each other would have believed that this was their first meeting. And if the similarities in appearance between that boy and the master were down to sheer coincidence, then she would eat her hat. Her largest, most elaborate feather plumed one, at that.

It was clear then that when the master had requested that she take Madame and her son around the park and show them the highlights that this was not to be the usual flash and bang, dazzle and bamboozle the investor affair. She was going to have to go to the very heart and soul of Phantasma if the master was to get what he so deserved. Still, she reasoned, it would not be the first time she had played cupid. Heaven knows she had donned the wings and been hoisted above the stage for enough productions, now that it was about time she tried it for real.

Miss Fleck had been with the master, on and off, for more time than anyone else in the troupe, except perhaps Squelch and Gangle. She was one of the few that had seen him with his mask off, back in the very early days at the sideshows, when he had had no other recourse but to put himself on occasional display. She was also one of the few that knew his real name, outside of Mr Y, though she would never presume to use it. 

No, Miss Fleck was decidedly not stupid. Over the years she watched, she listened, and she learned to piece things together. It was a survival technique, really. Nobody really expected the funny midget to have a grain of intellect, so they spoke in front of her, or else they didn’t even realise she was there. She treasured up information and used it for her own gain. Old habits die hard, and even though she had no need for it here in Phantasma she had continued to do the same - watching, listening, learning. She heard the whispered ‘Who are you?’ as the three of them left the ayrie, and that she thought, was a question she could help answer.

***

Back in the ayrie Erik stared, unfocussed at the door, as if trying to see through it to the departing group beyond. Ten years since they had last spoken, and yet now the silence in the room since she had left felt deafening. He crossed to the piano, and attempted to play to calm himself and release the emotions swirling within his chest, but his fingers would not cooperate. His limbs felt restless and unwieldy, and his mind constantly returning to the place in the park that they might now be, wondering what she thought, what she felt, how she would act.

How would she decide? What if she declined, what would he do then? And if she accepted, what then? What would he say to her when they next met? How should he act? He paced the floor again and again, his mind racing. He had learned many things over the last ten years, he thought bitterly, but patience was not one of them. He was filled with the overwhelming urge to act - to do something to somehow fix this. His heart raged for action, but his mind warned him against that path. This was not something he could bamboozle, or intimidate, or heaven forfend try to seduce her into accepting. The bitter experience of their past told him this as clearly as could be, and he would not risk losing her again to his inability to control himself. He must school himself against action. 

What was it she had said? ‘It was my choice. Mine - and you took it and left me with nothing else.’ Well, that was something that he would ensure never happened again. History had proven that he could not trust his own treacherous heart to lead him on the right course of action, so he would trust it instead to her own pure and unblemished one. He could and would conceal his base, depraved desires from her and follow only where she led. What was one more mask in the grand scheme of things? He wore so many now, layer upon layer upon layer of masks to try and hide the monster always lurking underneath. This one, gilded with honourable purpose and her sanctified presence would be no more of a burden to bear. 

Expect nothing, demand nothing, give what you can give, he reminded himself.

But however he schooled his will, his body continued to betray him. The organs within his chest seemed to fight each other in an attempt to throw themselves upward and outward, expanding and contracting painfully so that he thought his ribcage might burst. His fingers itched, and he found himself clawing at his own clothing, worrying the folds of his overcoat and tugging at his strangling cravat. His legs alternated between trembling so violently that he felt they might collapse from underneath him, to restlessly carrying him round and round the office floor until he thought he might wear a rut in the carpets with his pacing. A strange something bubbled up in his throat, and he wasn’t sure if he was going to scream, laugh, or vomit. 

For the first time in several years Erik found himself longing for the cool, quiet solitude of his old home beneath the opera house. The soothing drip of water off the cavern roof, the musty damp smell, and the resounding echo of his own footsteps. He missed the simplicity of acting without thought or reference to society.

‘Enough!’ he growled, shaking himself away from dangerous thoughts. This was getting ridiculous. He needed action to take his mind off things, and the company of others to remind himself to behave like the man he was trying to be and not the monster he was inside. He straightened his clothing, smoothed his slick back hair and rubbed a rough hand over the exposed side of his face. It was time to go to work.

***

Christine walked through the park in a daze, her hand gripping Gustave’s tightly as the followed Miss Fleck - the boy chatting happily to the aerialist, expressing his anticipation at seeing the delights Phantasma had to offer. She could not attend to the conversation. Her mind kept flickering back to the office they left behind, and to the man she had so long considered to be dead and gone.

He was here. He had found her again. He had been meeting with their son - teaching their son, for all this time, without either of them being aware of who they were to each other. In her youth at the opera she had often marvelled at the strange circumstances that brought her and her Angel together - as if he had somehow been created to find her and support her when she needed him most. Of course, that was before, before the dream had been shattered and it had all gone so horribly wrong. Yet here he was again, offering to support her, to protect her? Unlooked for, reaching out to her child and offering him understanding and companionship as he had done to her. Not for the first time she wondered whether he was entirely natural after all. He had haunted her in the opera, he had haunted her thoughts every day for ten years since, and now, here he was again - her innermost thoughts somehow made solid. While she knew full well he was a flesh and blood man, there was something preternatural about the way he seemed to appear in her life.

What did he want? In the past he had always been so direct, so forceful. But this man, this Erik was something different. Him, and yet, not him. He was soft, and gentle, as he had been in the early days, but the command was gone from his voice. He was older, of course, they both where, and yet in some ways he had seemed younger, more vulnerable and exposed than she had ever seen him before. Perhaps that was just the mother in her speaking - yet he had taken of his mask, voluntarily, without asking. What did that mean? Her head buzzed and her chest felt tight, something squirmed and fluttered in the pit of her stomach - she was not sure if it was anger, fear, joy, or something else entirely.

She was jerked back to the present by Gustave’s insistent tug on her arm. 

‘Mama, Mama!’ he cried, his eyes wide with wonder, ‘Look at it Mama.’

She blinked rapidly, her gaze turning outward and her eyes recentering on the world around her. A riot of colour and light swam into focus before her, and she gasped involuntarily as she took it in.  
‘Oh!’ she said in wonder.

‘I think it’s beautiful Mama!’ cried Gustave, dancing a small jig on the spot. ‘So very beautiful!’

Christine looked down at her son and smiled. ‘Indeed it is,’ she said, a small laugh bubbling up unexpectedly in her throat. ‘As are you, my darling.’

It was indeed beautiful, and entirely unexpected. Her Angel’s world, Erik’s world she reminded herself forcefully, had always been one of darkness, gloom and fiery contrasts. A world oppressive silences punctuated by loud tortuous noise, soaring beauty and barely controlled passions. Phantasma was, well, fun. It was gaudy, and glitzy, and, yes perhaps a little macabre once you looked beyond the dazzling lights, but there was a sense of overwhelming joy and abandon to the place which it was impossible to ignore.

Christine’s mouth formed a silent ‘O’ as she looked about her, taking in the scene before her eyes. The park’s main attraction, a tall winding track traversed by a train of carts that clattered and rattled as it rose and fell dominated the vista. The shrieks of delight and fear of the riders as they crested a peak and dropped once more beyond it rang out across the park. At its furthest end was a large and rather grand looking building, the music hall, she presumed, while behind them at the entrance Erik’s tower office loomed over it all - it’s grand lights proclaiming the name ‘Phantasma’ for all to see from miles around.

Within, dotted here and there with paths winding between them so that the place appeared to be an endless maze were a variety of tents, sideshows, stalls and rides, all clamouring for attention. Between them wove a variety of colourful people, Jugglers, Stiltwalkers, Firebreathers and Contortionists, each beckoning the eager customer to come and explore this or that spectacle. The park was a cacophony of music and laughter. Carousel organs jostled for attention against the reedy pipes of snake charmers, and all around were groups of people - lovers strolling arm in arm, harassed nannies hollering for control, and children, children everywhere, shrieking and capering with delight.

Christine shook her head in disbelief. How could all of this possibly relate to the dark, mysterious and withdrawn man she knew. The man who had physically recoiled if she made one sudden movement, who had cowered like a cornered animal at the unexpected sound of her voice, who shunned company and hid himself away in a basement, lashing out only in threats and pain and anger.

Miss Fleck kept a careful eye on the soprano as they wandered through the park, the boy’s enthusiasm dragging them zig-zag from one place to another. She had to get the timing absolutely right. Too soon, and she could tell from the pallid face and wide eyes that the poor soul would not take in a word she said - too late, of course, and she risked the soprano creating her own narrative which might not serve her master’s purpose quite so well. 

They stopped at the carousel, the boy pulling his mother onto a chestnut steed before selecting its dramatic black neighbour for himself. Miss Fleck politely declined to join them, and stood to the side watching the pair travel round and round, the boy chatting to his mother constantly, his excited hand shooting out to point out something or another as they passed it. As they circled the tension seemed to slowly melt from the mother’s face, and at last, Miss Fleck saw her laugh at something the boy said. She could not recall the mysterious Swedish singer ever conversing with other members of the troupe from their days on the circuit together. Mostly, she would keep to her dressing room until it was her turn to take to the stage, slipping on quietly, performing, and then disappearing back into the shadows as soon as the applause began to die. She could not tell then whether her general silence now was one of habit, or whether it was the remnants of shock from her meeting with the master, but she decided to take the laughter as a good sign. It was time for her work to begin.

‘Now,’ she said as the pair exited the carousel, young Gustave clutching his mother’s arm and still chattering animatedly, ‘How would you like to see Phantasma’s true mysteries?’ - she waved her arm theatrically, and waggled her eyebrows at the boy, who clapped his hands in delight.

‘Oh please!’ he breathed, ‘I want to see it all!’

‘Are you ready to experience the strange and wild?’ Fleck continued, giving a knowing smirk to the mother who was regarding her with a calm curiosity.

‘Yes!’ he replied, his enthusiasm bubbling visibly.

‘Follow me then, young sir’ she replied, and swept the pair towards an enclave of attractions towards the outskirts of the park.

Christine drew a sharp intake of breath through her teeth. It was a freak show. Of all the things she expected to find in Erik’s park, a freak show was not one of them. She clutched anxiously at Gustave’s hand. She was used to seeing this kind of attraction, they had often congregated around the travelling variety acts she had performed with in the beginning, but she had always been very careful to avoid Gustave being exposed to them. She did not want him to feel on display, and some of the cruel reactions of the audiences at these shows would haunt her for life. People threw rotten fruit, poked and prodded, laughed and ridiculed. She tensed, and prepared to drag the boy away immediately - but something about the scene stopped her.

She looked down at Miss Fleck questioningly, who returned her look with a knowing nod.

The ‘freaks’ in Erik’s park seemed more relaxed, than any she had seen before. There was no humiliating laughter, no shrieks or taunting from the audience. She looked about, but could see no grotesques, no ‘abominations of nature’ caged on display. A pair of conjoined twins played a delightful duet on voice and harp, while a bearded lady performed feats of strength, lifting delighted members of the audience high into the air and balancing on a ball. Over in the corner a ‘mermaid’ languished in a tank of water, crooning sweetly and flicking water at passers by. A burly tattooed man patrolled the perimeter, casting his eye over proceedings. Christine suspected that should anyone in the audience become a little rowdy or objectionable, he would quickly put them in their place.

Gustave tugged at her hand, keen to get a closer look at what was going on, and she absent mindedly let it slip, releasing him to make his own way around the attraction.

Beside her, Miss Fleck began to speak.

‘You are surprised,’ she said - a statement, not a question. ‘It is understandable.’

Christine looked at her and arched an eyebrow.

‘You wonder how the master could allow this kind of exhibit in his park?’

She nodded in assent.

‘The first time I met the master, we were both performing at a side show.’ Fleck continued. ‘I was employed for titillation - they required me to run under the skirts of the patrons, to make lewd gestures and act as an object of fun. Occasionally I would be required to assist the strong man, to be lifted or thrown, but largely I was there to humiliate, and be humiliated. I shan’t trouble to tell you what my costume was, I’m sure your imagination can supply.

He was not the man he is now, you understand. I believe he was but newly arrived in America. They put him on display, billed as ‘The Living Death’. At first they would just make him stand there, totally naked, while people stared at him - he was painfully thin, more so than even now, and he is not a naturally corpulent man, I’m sure you are aware.

‘We don’t speak of it now, but I am one of the few people here to have seen him without the mask. We never spoke a word at the time. I don’t believe he spoke to anybody. He would simply put on his clothes, and a cloth mask at the end of every day, and retire to his tent by himself. Nobody wanted to share with him - they were all frightened of his face, so he was often alone - he would not eat with us. I dare say he feared our reaction. The only time we ever really saw him was when one of the young boys from the troupe, the son of a Norwegian couple who performed a contortionist and magician act, played his fiddle. Then he would come to the opening of his tent and just sit and stare into the distance.’

Christine let out a small sigh, but said nothing else. Miss Fleck continued.

‘Then one evening, the managers heard him singing to himself. I can still remember that night myself. It was the most beautiful sound I have ever heard - I thought my heart was about to break. 

They hauled him out and told him that from now onwards he would sing for them in his act. At first he said no, so they beat him. He laughed and said they could beat him all they liked, but they would never make him sing, so they grabbed the boy with the fiddle and started to beat him instead. I will never forget it. I thought for one moment he was going to murder them on the spot - the look in his eyes, it was like looking at some sort of wild animal - and then he just stopped - lay down like a dog and took the beating. It was awful to watch.’

Christine shivered. A small smile crossed Miss Fleck’s lips, and she continued. 

‘He sang every night after that - such beautiful, horrible songs. They started to call him the Angel of Death then. I truly think if you had listened to him for too long you might have died of a broken heart. I have never heard anything like it in my life before or since. He still kept himself to himself mostly, but he didn’t sing to himself in the evenings any more, and when the boy played, he didn’t come out of the tent - although I’m sure he was still listening.

And then about a month later, he just disappeared, vanished without a trace. That kind of thing happened all the time, of course. It wasn’t exactly somewhere you stuck about by choice, so people often upped and went. At the time he disappeared the Norwegian boy and his parents vanished too. Nobody at the time really thought much of it - they just presumed the beatings had driven them all away. I can’t say I gave him much thought after that - another missing freak. You try not to think too much where people have gotten to - it doesn’t always end well for freaks like us. Best not to dwell on it.

Then two years later we started to hear rumours of a new group on the circuit, turning up on other people’s patch, performing for a few nights and then packing up and leaving. Everywhere they showed up people would start to disappear from other shows. Usually it was the star attraction - a freak or oddity that would draw the crowd, or one of the show’s best performers, but sometimes it was the sort of person nobody notices has gone missing for days and days - nonentities like the kid with the fiddle.’

Christine sucked in a breath. She’d heard stories about her angel and missing people before. People from his past who vanished in the flick of a wrist. These stories did not usually end well - wasn’t she herself living proof of that? Miss Fleck threw her a sideways glance - her eyebrow arched slightly.

‘It didn’t take long for the other sideshow owners to start to get fractious. The odd missing freak could be overlooked, but a show that went about stealing freaks and audiences from under their noses? Some of them started to talk about ‘showing them a lesson’. First they sent a couple of their best strongmen to rough whoever this upstart was up. But the strongmen didn’t come back, so some of them decided they would have to take matters into their own hands. 

She glanced upwards at the soprano who stood motionless at her side, her hands clasped tight in front of her, eyes cast down as if she was preparing to receive unwelcome news, and wondered silently what the master had been to her, that she seemed to fear some terrifying revelation at every point in the narrative’s turn.

‘None of them would ever say what happened that day, but when they returned the next night it was as if someone had let all the air out of them. There was no swagger, none of the usual raucous laughter, or the leering and the wandering hands. They just sat, and drank, and nobody ever mentioned any of the missing performers again. A week later, and most of them had packed up and moved on, and only the new show was left standing.’

‘Did he,’ Christine began, her voice sounding small and fragile, ‘did someone hurt them, do you think?’

Miss Fleck raised an eyebrow and glanced at her sidelong.

‘Not physically, no.’ She replied slowly. ‘At least, I couldn’t determine that there was any damage done, and I’ve seen enough broken ribs and bruised torsos to know what it looks like when someone is nursing an injury that they’d rather you didn’t see. But where it counts most? Their pride, their reputation, their pocket book? Most surely.’

Christine nodded slowly. ‘And he?’

Miss Fleck chuckled. ‘After all this had happened, I decided I had to go and see for myself, so I went on over to catch a performance, and there they all were. First thing I saw was that kid with the fiddle, sitting there bold as brass in the admissions booth. The strongmen, the contortionist and the magician, the whole lot of them. I didn’t spot him at first - he nearly frightened me out of my wits when I heard his voice asking me if I’d like to join them right behind my ear. When I turned he was standing meters away at the back of the show just watching me. Still gives me the heebie jeebies when he does that to this day…’

A small smile spread over Christine’s face, and she nodded almost imperceptibly. 

‘Yes, that sounds like him.’ She paused, ‘So you stayed?’

‘Mostly, yes,’ Fleck replied. ‘I’ve been and gone a few times over the years when the mood has taken me. He doesn’t mind that - if you’re reliable and work hard, there is always a place for you here. When I heard he was building the park I decided I would stay. I’ve never had a real home - we’ve always been on the move. Never really had a family either - but now, well - we might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but this place does for me.’ She shrugged, and smiled wistfully.

Christine frowned. Safety and family were not concepts she was used to associating with him (with Erik she reminded herself. He had a name now).

‘You like him then?’ she asked tentatively. 

‘I’m not sure like is a word I would use. He seems to be beyond our likes and dislikes, if you catch my meaning. I say this is my family - and if it is, he is the patriarch, but he is not demonstrative, warm or fatherly in the traditional sense of the word. He keeps himself to himself, he expects us to work hard and work well, and when we do, he keeps a roof over our head, keeps us fed, keeps the wolves away from the door, if you catch my meaning. He takes care of us. He sees us and respects us - which for us is something you don’t get to say often - and we respect him. It works.’

‘Did he, does he still perform?’ she asked tentatively, unsure how to phrase it, or exactly what she was really asking. Did he still sing? Did he play? Did he still have to take his mask off? What did he do with himself now that he had created his own little world to slip himself into?

‘Not in the traditional sense of the word, no. Certainly not as he did before.’ Fleck replied simply. ‘Nobody ever sees him with the mask off. Of course, there are rumours, but I think the newer members of our family see it as a theatrical prop to help heighten the sense of mystery and illusion that surrounds him. He does not sing…’

Was it her imagination, or was there a sense of sadness in Fleck’s voice in that revelation Christine wondered?

‘He plays, of course. But not for the public. He writes for us, rehearses us, and creates little musical entertainments for the audience - if you like, I could show you?’ She gestured forwards.

‘Of course,’ Christine replied mechanically, ‘We promised Gustave a tour of the park - I am sure he would be delighted to see anything there is to show.’

She looked up for her son and saw him, still talking animatedly to the mermaid in the bath tub. His eyes found hers and he beamed beatifically and scampered back to her side. 

‘Mama,’ he whispered conspiratorially, ‘Do you know she’s not a real mermaid?’

‘Oh?’ his mother replied, trying to keep the chuckle from her voice at the naive wonder in his voice.

‘No,’ he said, doing a little jig on the spot as if the secret was the most delightful thing he could possibly have heard. ‘She is just a lady!’

Christine smiled and squeezed his hand playfully. ‘She must get frightfully cold then, having to sit out in a bath all day.’

Gustave giggled delightedly. ‘No, Mama! The bath is warm! She let me feel it. Imagine that - a bath that keeps itself warm, outside!’ A small furrow appeared on his brow. ‘I wish I knew how it worked, I asked her, but she did not know.’

He paused.

‘She had scales, you know… She’s not a real mermaid, but she does have scales - on her arms and legs. She told me it was a skin condition, and that they sometimes got very sore and dry, but that if she sits in a bath with a special lotion in it for a few hours a day, it makes it much better.’ He grinned. ‘Imagine that! Pretending to be a mermaid when really all she is doing is treating her skin. And nobody knows!’

‘Imagine that indeed…’

‘I wish I knew how that bath worked,’ he stated after a moment of silence. ‘Perhaps Erik will explain it to me when we next see him.’ And with that, he dropped his mother’s hand and scampered ahead again to join Miss Fleck - gushing with enthusiasm about the people and things he had seen.

Ah yes, Erik, thought Christine. Yes, there was a lot Erik needed to explain - the mystery of the mermaid’s warm bath was the least of them all. Who on earth was he? She tried to line up all the Eriks she had known or heard of in her life. Erik the Angel, her mysterious, generous, dazzling tutor - the man who had inspired her voice and brought her soul to ecstasies she had never known before. Erik the saviour who had rescued her from the depths of despair after her father’s death and brought her to life again. Erik the reclusive genius - the timid and awkward man hiding in the depths of the opera. Erik the musician, capable of creating sounds of such magnificent and astounding beauty. Erik the Phantom - terrorising the management, plaguing the performers and manipulating everyone to his will. Erik the cold blooded murderer, the kidnapper, the deranged madman - a creature of rage and desperation and pain. Erik the broken child, sobbing piteously and begging her to love him. Erik the passionate lover - his hands bringing her to new heights on that dark moonless night. Erik the abandoner - the raw, empty hole he left the next morning. Erik the ghost - the memories and pain that had followed her for the last ten years. 

And now? These new Eriks, businessman, philanthropist, penitent. How did it all fit together? What about Gustave - was father a role this man could play? Was it a role she wanted him to play? What did he want? More to the point, what did she want? How on earth was she supposed to work this all out? These questions and so many more were still flying round her head when they rounded a corner, and stepped straight into the forest of her childhood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man - this was harder to write than I expected. Feedback on Christine's voice would really be appreciated - I find her quite hard to capture. If anyone wants to reach out to help me improve this bit please do - I can also be found lurking on Tumblr as bozzleboz.


	6. Strange stories of the North

For a moment, Christine felt as if all the air had been sucked from her lungs.

How on earth could this be?

‘Mirrors’ replied Miss Fleck, startling Christine who had not realised she had asked the question out loud. 

‘They are placed just so, so that the trees are reflected and seem to go on forever, and yet somehow your own reflection is never quite caught.’ Gustave giggled and ducked about, trying to catch his own reflection in the vast woodland that stretched out before him. ‘You see this in shows all over,’ she continued in a matter of fact voice ‘but never one that manages to create such an expanse such as this. I often feel as if I could just stroll off into it.’

Christine nodded, her eyes drawn off into the cool green depths of the forest before her.

‘Mirrors’, She repeated to herself. ‘Of course.’

But that was not the answer to the question she had unintentionally voiced. Of course, mirrors might explain how a forest came to be sitting here in the middle of Coney Island, but it did not explain how it came to be this forest. Her forest.

There were the mossy boulders where she and Papa would sit, singing songs and telling tales of Tallemaja and the forest spirits. There was the quiet little stream which ran all the way down to the river. Papa had told her never to go to the river, lest the Stromkarl try and lure her in with his beautiful music. She had laughed and told him that she would always be safe from the water spirits as they had nothing to tempt her with - not even they could play as beautifully as her Papa, and he had waggled his eyebrows and asked her mysteriously where she thought he had learned to play in the first place. If she turned back and walked, oh, only fifteen minutes or so, she would be back home at the old house, with her Papa safe beside the fire.

She closed her eyes and she could almost swear she heard her father’s violin and smelled the smoke from the chimney mixing with the damp green mustiness of the forest.

A shrill cry of alarm broke her reverie, and her eyes snapped open, her head swivelling and her eyes darting rapidly to locate its source.

‘Gustave!?’ she cried, failing to hide the note of panic in her voice. ‘Gustave, where are you?’

‘Over here Mama’ he replied, his voice sounding strangely breathless. Wrenching herself away from the forest she hurried away towards it’s sound.

She found him and Miss Fleck standing next to a pair of outlandish mannequins, one in a harlequin mask the other dressed as what appeared to be a chicken., Both of them were clutching their ribs and gasping with soundless laughter. Relief coursed through her, followed swiftly by irritation.

‘There you are!’ she cried, ‘Gustave, please do not run away like that. What on earth made you cry out so?’ 

She heard the peevish, fretful tone in her voice and thought momentarily how unlike herself she sounded. She was about to turn and say something snappish to Miss Fleck about irresponsibly leading her son astray, when the Mannequins beside her suddenly moved, each turning their heads and their arms stretching outwards into an elaborate pose, and she let out an involuntary shriek of surprise.

‘Oh!’ she gasped as Gustave and Fleck dissolved into further fits of giggles.

‘Your face!’ spluttered Gustave.

A slow smile crept across Christine’s face, and she could not help but chuckle as her son contorted his strange features into an expression of alarm and surprise by way of illustration. She felt the tension she had been holding in her body melt away as she watched the boy caper unselfconsciously before her. Perhaps she had been too quick to see monsters lurking in the shadows today - they were after all at an amusement park. Some shrieking and screaming was to be expected.

‘Oh?’ she replied teasingly. ‘And I suppose that was not you I heard screaming like a frightened goat only moments ago?’

Gustave paused mid gurn and pouted. ‘I did not sound like a goat.’ he replied petulantly.

‘No?’ she replied, letting out a high pitched bleat herself. ‘I am sure I heard one. Perhaps there is a petting zoo here, and one has escaped?’

‘Mama!’ he replied, rolling his eyes. She smiled and took his hand, turning again to the mannequins.

‘Clockwork, I presume?’ she asked Miss Fleck, who nodded in response. ‘They look strangely familiar somehow, as if I had met them somewhere else before…’ A wistful look crossed her eyes. ‘Now, I believe you promised us some musical entertainment?’

Fleck smiled and inclined her head - ‘Indeed. Follow me.’ Leading them past the mechanical mannequins, and into a darkened tunnel behind them.

It took a moment for Christine’s eyes to adjust to the change in light, before she realised that she had entered into a covered walkway - a path wound gently through its centre leading on into the tunnel. At regular intervals along its path were recesses, each, containing some sort of scene or diorama. Intrigued she crossed to the first one and found it represented the inside of a simple cottage, not unlike something she and her rather might have stayed in during their travels through Europe. In front of the fire in a wicker basket reposed a dog, it’s sides rising and falling gently in sleep. It was perhaps a strange scene to find in the midst of an amusement park, and if it were not for the slight mechanical click that accompanied each outbreath, she might have wondered if a real dog had simply wandered in and curled up to sleep in a space intended for something else. Still, there was a sense of peace and tranquility about the scene which made it somehow irresistible. She stood staring at it for some moments before she noticed the subtle music playing in the background. She recognised it as a simple French peasant tune she had heard numerous times as a girl.

She wandered further in past a model of a gypsy camp where a young girl danced energetically in front of a camp fire, and onwards into what appeared to be a series of scenes of european architecture and townscapes, each accompanied by their own tinkling music box tunes - music, she presumed, which belonged to each region. It was almost as if the whole word - or at least a significant portion of it was laid out in front of them for all to see. Round another corner the scene shifted again and she found herself surrounded by exotic eastern scenes - grand palaces, rich colours and sumptuous interiors, populated by swarthy faces. She could almost smell the spices in the air as the music swirled around her, tense, exotic, sensual and somehow dangerous.

And then suddenly she was in Paris again. The roads, shop fronts and scenery were all achingly familiar to her - the marketplace where she and Mama Valerius bought their bread and groceries. The cafe where she and Papa would occasionally meet after he had been out playing - and there, right in the centre of it all was the Palais Garnier, the little carriages running too and fro from its steps. With a shaking breath she realised that she knew all too well what this place was, and what was likely to be round the next corner. 

It was somewhat disorientating then to turn from such an obviously Parisian scene, to one so clearly Scandinavian. She had expected, perhaps feared, to be confronted by scenes from their time together in the opera. Instead she found herself face to face with the folktales of her childhood. Her hands flew to her mouth and she stifled a surprised gasp as she took in the scene in front of her. First her forest, and now this? What on earth did this mean? A slow, nostalgic smile spread across her face as she gazed about her. It seemed almost impossible, she thought she had left him behind long ago when she crossed the sea, and yet here, in the middle of this strange amusement park, run by an impossible ghost from the past she found him again.

‘Papa,’ she whispered.

***

Erik grunted and cursed inwardly. It was fitting really that this bloody elephant would continue to be the bane of his life, even now after all this time. He recalled vividly how he had nearly been driven to distraction by its full size counterpart during rehearsals all those years ago, when despite that woman’s screeching, all the managers had seemed to care about was whether their ridiculous elephant was working or not. Of course, most of the time it was not, and he had at last been driven to come above and fix it himself one night just to spare himself another episode of ‘why isn’t the elephant on stage’ during the next rehearsal. He had been tempted to drop something large and heavy on top of it and take it out of action all together - but that had been before things and changed and Christine had been given a chance to perform the title role, and then he had been determined that absolutely nothing, not even a ridiculous mechanical elephant, should prevent her debut from being utterly, utterly perfect. 

Of course, that had been the night that had started everything off on its inexorable path to disaster, so it seemed fitting that over ten years later, he was still apparently stuck, unable to move on, fixing the damned elephant. 

The automatons were, if he was honest, a bit of a personal indulgence. For most people, they were a rather odd assortment of scenes without meaning or connection - for him they were something else entirely. Well, perhaps indulgence was not the right term - they were a penance really - a reminder to himself of what had been before so that he could never ever forget and accidentally slip again. Perhaps that was why the elephant kept breaking down. Some form of mechanical cosmic pacidermal deity which kept returning him to the moment of his downfall to remind him of what he had been, what he had done. 

Of course, he could not include everything - he was well aware that so much of his past was of a nature that even the most curious and macabre of his audience would not be able to stomach. But still, the whippings, the beatings, the betrayals, the murders and the heartbreak were all there, if you only had eyes to see them. Except that nobody else but him did - or at least, nobody else but him had until today.

He had been lying underneath the blasted elephant, tinkering away at it’s mechanics, attempting by sheer focus and activity to steer his mind away from that afternoon’s meeting in the Ayrie when he had heard the shriek.

He had known there were people in the attraction, of course - he’d heard their giggles from the entrance to the tunnel when they had arrived, but he had thought little of it. There was no need for anyone to see him after all - and it was not so unusual to see someone in the park fixing the attractions from time to time. He calculated they would just gloss over him as another worker (he flattered himself that at least, if the only bits of him on show were fully clothed in trousers and shoes, he looked much like any other man and therefore would not attract undue attention), and leave him alone. He calculated wrong.

‘Monsieur Erik!’

The cry startled him from his task, and he jolted upright, his head colliding with the underside of the elephant, drawing from him several colourful curses. He ran a tentative hand over the top of his head to ensure the collision had not done any damage to either his mask or his wig, and then rose from his hiding place to see the surprised faces of Gustave, Christine and Miss Fleck.

‘Ah’ he said stupidly ‘Hello’.

‘Sir!’ squeaked Miss Fleck, evidently surprised to find her employer suddenly in their midst.

‘I, ah, excuse me’ he stammered, ‘I was just fixing the elephant.’ He gestured helplessly to the elephant beside him, and then, as if to prove the point, he stooped, flicked a switch, and the elephant shuddered into life - waving its trunk from side to side.

Christine let out a small laugh and Erik’s eyes flicked to her in surprise. Today, it seemed, was a day of surprises. Not only had the opera ghost risen from the dead and offered her a job in a mysterious park full of reminders of her childhood, but now they had managed to sneak up on him unaware, in a state of partial dress with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his feet sticking out from underneath a miniature of the elephant from her operatic debut in Hannibal, nonetheless. Yes, today was a strange day indeed. She would need to add this new Erik, dishevelled flustered and about as far from his usual commanding and imposing self, to her list.

‘Yes,’ she said, quietly, ‘I recall it’s counterpart being quite troublesome at the time too.’

Behind his mask the colour drained from Erik’s face and the tips of his ears began to burn. Of course she recognised it. Of all the people it had to be her, the one other person in the world who could possibly understand what this all meant.

His eyes held hers, wide and pleading, and she nodded imperceptibly. He had no idea what she was thinking, but it seemed at least, she was not about to expose him now. 

As if suddenly aware of his state of appearance Erik swifty moved to smooth his hair, unrolled his sleeves and retrieved his coat from where he had draped it over the back of the elephant. He clambered out from the diorama and came to stand by their side, awkwardness and tension radiating from his body in waves.

Miss Fleck shuffled awkwardly, unsure of what steps to take next. This had not been part of the plan. She was to show the soprano the marvels of the park, and then return her to the masters presence suitably awed. And now the three of them found themselves standing in uncomfortable silence, none of them sure how to proceed or, apparently keen to be the first to make the next move. Mercifully, just when it appeared that they might have to stand there staring at their shoes for the rest of the day the boy intervened.  
‘Monsieur Erik,’ he chirped, causing both Erik and Christine to flinch visibly, as if they had both momentarily forgotten his existence. ‘Did you build all of these yourself?’

Erik smiled, grateful for the interruption, and nodded. ‘I did.’ he answered simply. ‘Do you like them?’

‘Oh yes - they are magnificent! Especially the ones with the trolls and goblins. They are just like the ones from Mama’s stories, although, I am not sure I like that one, with the angry organ.’ He nodded across the room the miniature pipe organ that was playing a passage Christine recognised as being an excerpt from the third act of Don Juan, when Aminta finally discovers his deception and runs to the king to tell her tale.

‘It is very strange and beautiful, but I think it is too sad and angry,’ continued the boy, ‘it hurts my heart.’

‘Indeed,’ replied Erik, a sad smile ghosting across his face, ‘it does. There are not many who do enjoy it, but so it is.’

‘And how are you enjoying the rest of my park, young man?’ Erik continued, seeming to suddenly come back to himself.

‘Oh!’ the boy cried, ‘It is magnificent! I have not seen it all yet, but I would like to! But I have so many questions. You must tell me how you keep the bath water hot, and how you make the little monkey and all these other machines play, and…’

‘Gustave,’ said Christine in a tone of gentle warning, and the boy’s voice trailed off

Erik laughed softly. ‘I am glad you are enjoying yourself.’ He cast a questioning glance at Christine and then fumbled with his pocket watch. ‘Would you like to?’ he asked suddenly. A momentary frown of confusion or concern flickered over Christine’s face and he stumbled over his words and felt the tips of his ears heating with embarrassment. ‘See it all, I mean,’ he clarified. ‘There is a way, and it does not take much time.’

He began to walk towards the exit of the tunnel, gesturing for them to follow. Baffled, Christine looked to Miss Fleck, who simply shrugged and the group began to follow. As they left the covered Christine threw a last glance towards the final automaton, tucked away in an alcove just beyond the organ, half hidden from view as if it were not sure if it was something that ought to be on display, its music a melancholy, haunting lullaby - a couple locked in a desperate kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, I did have Erik create his own miserable version of It's a Small, Small World just to torment himself. At least he had the decency to change up the music with each scene though (and if you're wondering how it doesn't sound like hell on earth in there with all the different music boxes playing over each other, I'm imaginging that he used his knowledge of accoustics and architecture to design the tunnel in such a way that each section can only be heard when you're directly in front of it - he's clever like that.)


	7. Something noteable and new

A warm evening glow was beginning to spread over the park as the trio emerged from the tunnel, blinking slightly as their eyes adjusted. Erik stood waiting for them, gesturing to the air somewhere above their heads.

‘I trust none of you are afraid of heights?’ he asked

Christine turned and craned her neck upwards. Of course, the wheel - one could likely see most of Coney Island from up there, never mind the park. 

‘I am not afraid,’ Gustave said firmly, his misshapen face turned upwards to the sky, a grin of delight writ large across his strange features. 

Several members of the public openly stared at the group as they passed. Erik’s shoulders tensed in response, but he continued to stride ahead, his gaze focussed on their destination. He silently wondered how the boy could seem to be so immune to the furtive glances and whispered exclamations, when each and every one of them seemed as loud as a scream to his ears. What must it be like to live each day without that fear? A tight knot writhed in the pit of his stomach when he considered that for all his continued innocence, one day the boy would inevitably learn that the world did not favour people like them, and the blow would be all the keener for the surprise of it. He grimaced to himself - a delightful legacy he had bequeathed his child, and an unbearable burden he had placed on the woman he loved. No matter how hard he tried, it seemed, he was still a monster.

He led them onwards through the crowds at a steady place to the foot of the wheel, where a small queue of people were waiting in line to board one of the covered gondolas that hung from it’s structure. 

‘Bernie,’ he said, nodding to the attendant as he crossed to the head of the line. 

‘Evening Sir!’ replied the attendant brightly, curiosity flickering across the man’s face at the unusual sight of the usually reserved master and approaching a ride while the park was still open. Normally any inspections or maintenance visits were kept until outside of operating hours.

‘May I introduce my guests, Madame Skugga, and young master Gustave,’ Erik continued, gesturing at Christine and her son who gazed up at the wheel in wonder. If his tongue stumbled over Christine’s alias, his employee did not notice. ‘They have been conducting a tour of the park with Miss Fleck, and I have suggested that this is the best possible way to see it all. Would you be so kind as to accommodate us?’

‘Of course, sir,’ cried Bernie, jumping to attention. Site tours could only mean one thing - important people, and if the boss wanted to impress these people, then Bernie was fairly sure that he did too. ‘There’s a car just coming free now, Sir, if you’ll step this way.’

The wheel slowed to a stop, and the group were ushered into the awaiting vehicle. Gustave scampered in first, settling himself in the far corner, and Christine quickly clambered in beside him. Erik stepped back to allow Miss Fleck to enter and then climbed in after her, finding himself suddenly face to face with Christine. His knee knocked against hers as he attempted to fold his long legs in front of him, and he blushed and stammered an apology at the contact.

Christine smiled, and had to stifle a chuckle at the awkward picture he presented - the once fearsome Opera Ghost folded awkwardly into an amusement park ride. Who would ever have thought it. He muttered something to himself about ‘designing larger cars next time’ to himself and shifted awkwardly.

‘Enjoy your ride,’ chirped Bernie, as he closed the door behind them, and a dull, ‘clang’ heralded the resumption of the wheel’s mechanism as they began to depart.

An awkward silence settled over the group, as their gondola rose in slow increments from the ground. Gustave squirmed impatiently in his seat craning his neck upwards for a better view of the mechanism. 

It was the first time, she realised, that she had ever seen him in daylight. All their previous encounters had been indoors - most often within the bowels of the opera house, lit only by candles, or, she thought with a blush, on that one moonless night ten years ago, where there had been no light at all.

There was grey in his hair, she noted. She recalled it had always been jet black and impeccably groomed. It gave him a softer, more mellow appearance somehow. She realised suddenly that this must have been intentional - it was after all a wig. His own hair, she knew, was white and extremely sparse. His mask seemed to be different too, still the same brilliant white porcelain which sometimes haunted her dreams, but the angles seemed softened - the line of the brow somehow less severe. She almost opened her lips to ask him to confirm her observation, and then she recollected herself. The most striking observation however was his eyes. If you had asked her before, she would have called them yellow. She recalled how they had seemed to burn like fire in the darkness. Now, at this proximity and in the failing evening light they appeared to be more golden - a mixture of soft liquid brown highlighted with fiery flecks. His eyes had always been captivating, she recalled with a slight shudder.

As if reading her thoughts Erik’s gaze suddenly flicked upwards, and she became suddenly aware she had been staring. A strange jolt shot through her as his eyes caught hers, and a hot blush rose up her cheeks. She turned her head rapidly, fussing at Gustave to stop jiggling the carriage in his excitement as she tried to cover her embarrassment.

Miss Fleck watched with increasing incredulity. Perhaps she had not needed to worry about impressing the soprano so intensely after all - by the way she had just been staring, it seemed fairly clear that whatever her feelings toward the master may be, they were most certainly not neutral. And now the master was staring back at her like he was a drowning man and she was his only chance of air. She was beginning to feel rather like a spare wheel. Still - if she didn’t say or do something soon, the master might actually begin to drool on himself. She had better put an end to this puppyishness before he began to embarrass himself.

‘Look,’ she began, in a voice far louder than the space would otherwise have required, ‘there is the petting zoo’ pointing to an area of the park which had just come into view over Gustave’s shoulder.

Erik snapped his head towards her, realising guiltily that he had been staring in silence for some moments now. 

‘Ah, yes,’ he stuttered, ‘Indeed - you can see the animal enclosures from here.’

Gustave swivelled in his seat and stared. ‘What kinds of animals do you have?’ he asked, squinting as if he could make them out from this height.

‘Oh, a range’ he replied nonchalantly, trying to regain his sense of composure. ‘We have a particularly impressive stable of horses, of course - some of them are used for acrobatics, and the others give carriage rides. I am rather fond of horses myself. Plus donkeys - they give rides for the children. And then there are the camels - I am less fond of them.’ He waggled his head at Gustave conspiratorially ‘I had a rather unpleasant run in with a train of camels in the east, you know. And they spit, too.’ 

Gustave giggled.

‘Do you have lions? Or tigers?’ he asked. 

‘No,’ he replied, ‘We were offered one once, but I could not bring myself to cage it. When I was a young man I was once asked to build a palace just for cats. A whole palace! I could not imagine confining one of their kings to anything smaller.’

‘A palace for cats?’ squeaked Gustave. ‘Did you build palaces? Why would cats want a palace?’

‘Yes,’ said Erik, ‘I built palaces once - a long, long time ago.’ He smiled sadly, ‘The cats had no need for a palace, I am sure - but too much money and power sometimes make people do extremely silly things. Commissioning cat palaces is just one of them.’

Gustave eyed him suspiciously.

‘We have an excellent aviary,’ Erik continued, changing the subject rapidly. ‘As well as a rather beautiful butterfly house, and a rather outstanding collection of snakes and scorpions.’

Christine shuddered.

‘No spiders though,’ he added, giving her a reassuring smile. 

The Gondola continued it’s slow climb to the top of the wheel, with Erik and Miss Fleck alternately pointing out different attractions and areas of the park to Gustave as they climbed.

‘What is that building?’ Gustave asked, pointing to the large ornate hall that dominated the northern end of the park.

‘Ah!’ said Erik, ‘That is my concert hall - my pride and joy!’ His eyes glowed with warmth as he spoke. ‘It is only recently opened, and that, I hope, is where your Mama will grace us with her presence in the future.’ he looked at Christine hopefully, ‘Should you chose to accept, that is.’

‘It seems very big,’ Gustave replied.

‘I suppose it does, compared to some of the theatres that you are used to, but it is nothing compared to the grand opera houses of Paris, or Venice, or Rome… Your mother would be an ornament to any of those stages - it will be an honour to have her.’

Gustave smiled happily, and then a thought suddenly striking him asked, ‘Does it have an organ?’

‘An organ?’ Erik repeated in surprise

‘Yes! Mama told me about the organ at the opera house in Paris - she said she heard the most beautiful music in the world on it. I wondered if there was one here too. I have never heard a real organ. I should very much like to.’

Christine blushed and busied herself with an invisible mark on the edge of her sleeve.

‘No,’ said Erik softly, ‘it does not. But perhaps it ought to one day. We shall see.’

Silence fell over the group again as the gondola continued its slow rise to the top. Erik pulled his pocket watch from his breast pocket and examined it momentarily.

‘Ah,’ he said with satisfaction as the gondola reached the peak of it’s climb and paused momentarily ‘Just on time. Now this should be worth seeing.’ 

Christine and Gustave both looked at him, frowning, and for the first time Erik was struck with how similar their faces were. Of course, he could see himself in there - that much was obvious, but the shape of the eyes, the curious, searching expression, and the turn of the mouth was all her. He wondered how he had not noticed the similarities before. Perhaps he had - perhaps that had been part of the pull of the boy all along.

‘Look,’ he said simply - pointing outwards and smiling despite himself.

As if by magic the park beneath them illuminated - switches thrown every evening brought strings of electric lights spluttering to life, and suddenly the pathways beneath them sprang out like veins. Along the sides of the attractions fluorescents sputtered into life, and the spokes of the very wheel they sat upon began to glow.

‘Oh!’ said Christine in surprise.

‘It is a little gaudy, I know’ replied Erik, smiling to himself. ‘I much prefer the subtlety of gas and candle light myself - but it is quite the latest thing.

‘It’s magical’ Gustave breathed. Christine slipped her arm round him, pulling him close and kissing the top of his head with a smile.

‘There is a rehearsal planned,’ Erik said, eyeing Christine with hope, ‘in the concert hall, in the next fifteen minutes. I wonder, would you like to attend? It will only be a short run through of some new pieces, before we need to clear the stage for the next show, but I thought, perhaps you might like to see?’ his voice trailed off hopefully.

Gustave turned his face upwards and looked at his mother expectantly. She smiled back at him, before turning her gaze toward Erik.

‘Yes, I think we would both enjoy that. Thank you.’

If she had to name the expression that crossed Erik’s face at that moment, she would have called it relief.

The group completed the descent in companionable silence - Christine and Gustave too absorbed in admiring their surroundings to engage in any meaningful conversation. At the bottom of the ride they were once again greeted by Bernie who cheerfully released them from their carriage.

‘Quite the sight, eh lad?’ he said as Gustave climbed out. Christine smiled and noticed for the first time that despite her son’s face being exposed, and despite the numerous stares their group had attracted from members of the public, not a single one of the Phantasma staff had reacted to it at all.

***

The entrance to the Phantasma concert hall was by no means as impressive as that of the Opera Populaire, but still, Christine thought, it was quite the sight. The lines were clean, modern and a far cry from the dramatic and ornate style which she had come to associate with the Opera Ghost.

‘I am experimenting with something new,’ Erik stated simply on seeing her raised eyebrow and look of surprise. ‘There is something architecturally satisfying about geometric lines, don’t you think?’

Not for the first time in their acquaintance Christine wondered if he could read her mind.

If the entrance was marked by simplicity however, the theatre itself was characterised by opulence. The layout, she thought, was remarkably similar to Paris, in the placement of the boxes, and the, admittedly dramatically reduced, layout of the seat. She found herself wondering with amusement whether Erik still preferred to watch performances from Box Five. But while Paris was voluptuous and dramatic, here gold highlight, sunburst and radiating lines all served to draw the eye to the stage.

Erik gestured to a row of seats, encouraging Christine and Gustave to enter. Miss Fleck smiled encouragingly, and then made her way down towards the stage, where a group of outlandish looking performers stood chatting easily.

‘Perhaps after rehearsal I could show you your accommodation - that is, I could show you the accommodation which would be yours, should you choose to accept. Yours and Gustave’s of course. If you wish it…’ he trailed off, cursing himself inwardly for his ineloquence.

‘If it is no trouble?’ she replied politely, her eyes flickering towards his face and then quickly sliding away again.

‘No, it is no problem at all,’ he replied, struggling to keep his voice detached and businesslike. It was a lie of course. With every word he spoke he was painfully aware that it was becoming an increasingly large problem indeed. He had spent less than an hour or two in her presence and already the thought of seeing her go, of her saying  _ No  _ and his having to let her go again was absolutely impossible. He was completely and utterly lost, and he had no idea what to do about it.

‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have a rehearsal to attend to. Please, make yourselves comfortable. I will return for you when I am done.’ 

It took all the strength he had not to look back over his shoulder several times to determine if she was still there as he crossed the short distance to the stage. 

Christine settled back into the seat and watched as Erik strode on stage, immediately commanding the attention of his company. Immediately she saw before her her maestro and tutor as she had known him in days past. He pored over a score with a furrow of concentration on his brow, before stepping back and barking one or two direct commands. Immediately the musicians struck up what could only have been described as a lively, frivolous little tune, and a row of scantily clad dances snapped to their places at the back of the stage.

It was somewhat jarring to see her stern and exacting tutor overseeing what could only be described as a vaudeville showtune. She thought of the ballet rats, and their constant giggling and shrieking over tales of the opera ghost. What on earth would they make of him trying to direct a fan dance?

Lost in her thoughts, she hardly noticed when a young carrying a violin case entered the auditorium and began to walk toward them through the seats, until he plopped himself down a seat away from Gustave and let out an exhausted sigh.

‘Hello!’ he offered cheerily in a lilting and slightly familiar accent. 

Gustave returned the greeting enthusiastically. ‘Do you play here?’ he asked, noticing the case.

‘No,’ the boy replied. ‘I’ve just come back from rehearsal - I play at the Met’ he said by way of explaining, his chest expanding with pride as he said it.

‘Oh?’ said Christine, impressed that they were in the presence of such a serious young musician, but somewhat confused as to why she found herself sitting with him in Phantasma of all places. ‘So what brings you here?’ 

‘My parents perform here,’ he replied, ‘I’m due to take them for dinner this evening, and I like to try and catch Mr Y to pay my respects when I’m around.’

‘You are the boy with the fiddle!’ Christine exclaimed loudly, clapping her hand over her mouth as soon as she had spoken and hoping her voice would not carry to the stage.

The boy eyed her curiously. ‘I’m sorry?’ he said, a note of caution in his voice.

‘My apologies,’ she stammered lowering her voice, ‘I am an old friend of Mr Y’s - I have not seen him for many years, since before he left for America, and only today was I brought up to speed on, well, on what had become of him since we parted. Forgive me, I was told the story of a boy with a fiddle whose parents worked at a travelling fair, and I though - well, I thought you might be that boy.’

A soft smile crossed the boy’s face. ‘Ah, yes, I see. My apologies, you understand, not many people know of our history. I was not sure…’ He looked toward the stage fondly. ‘You are an old friend, you say? From before?’

Feeling awkward in her turn, Christine merely nodded.

‘That is good. It is good to see he has friends,’ the boy said wistfully. ‘I owe him a great deal. Not only did he spare me a beating, but he provided my parents with a safe and stable job, and ensured that I had a future. I would not be where I am without him.’

‘Indeed?’ she whispered, eager to hear more, but unsure how to ask.

The boy touched the violin case fondly. ‘He tutored me for several years,’ he replied. ‘It was him that encouraged me to audition for the Met. I would never have presumed otherwise. I’m sure you’re aware - kids from travelling fairs do not often grow up to play in orchestras. I owe him a very great deal indeed.’

‘He is a good man’ Christine said quietly. She was not sure if it was a question or a statement.

‘He is,’ the boy agreed, and then scoffing ‘Although I am not sure I can forgive him for this horrifically saccharine tune.’ He let out a laugh at the look of surprise on Christine’s face.

‘He wrote  _ this? _ ’ she squeaked. On stage a brassy voiced showgirl warbled suggestively about bathing beauties, while the dancers continued to perfect their fan dance behind her.

‘You betcha!’ he replied. ‘He writes all the music for the show. It’s perhaps not his finest work, but you have to admit, it is catchy!’

When Erik returned to them Christine’s mind was reeling. The rest of the rehearsal had been filled with other, similarly upbeat song and dance numbers, as well as a particularly spectacular aerial act performed by Miss Fleck. She was struggling to reconcile her strict and reserved former tutor with the man she saw on stage before her, quite seriously directing performers through what she could not help describing as rather, well ‘free’ acts. At one point he had even picked up a parasol and performed what could only be described as a rather complicated set of twirling maneuvers to demonstrate to one of the dancers.

‘Good evening Toré,’ he said, nodding at the boy as he approached. ‘Still practising hard I hope?’

‘Incessantly Sir,’ the boy replied with a nod of his head. Then quirking an eyebrow he remarked ‘Bathing Beauties?’

The tips of Erik’s ears turned red, and he gave a startled glance at Christine, before recovering and replying ‘Hush! I’ll have less of your impudence my boy.’

‘I am sure it will go down a storm, sir’ said the boy chuckling.

‘Indeed,’ growled Erik, ‘So am I. I apologise if we offended your delicate sensibilities. We can’t all be at the Met you know.’ he continued with a sidelong look at Christine, ‘Although heaven help me, I do hope to raise the standard here a little if I can.’ 

‘They would be honoured to have you if you did, Sir,’ replied Toré. ‘I hope you will come and listen some day soon?’

‘Yes, well, get on with you,’ he huffed, ‘Your parents will be waiting.’

The boy nodded and strode off through towards the stage, waving enthusiastically at some of the performers as he went.

‘My apologies,’ said Erik, turning to Christine and Gustave once more - noting the droop of the young boy’s head as he sat in his seat ‘I fear we will be keeping young Gustave up far beyond his bedtime. Shall we conclude our tour?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More liberties - I know it's about a decade too soon for Art Deco to be a thing in New York, but I figured Erik was ahead of his time with his Operas, so he's probably much the same with his architecture. Always trying something a bit different from the rest of the crowd and probably several steps ahead with the next big thing, even if they don't know it yet. You never know, maybe some of the great deco architecture of New York was inspired by a visit to Phantasma? Hehe..


	8. Accomodation

She was not sure what she had expected when he mentioned accommodation. Perhaps a set of rooms somewhere within the back of the buildings of the park. Maybe even a caravan. Whatever she had imagined though, it was a sumptuous penthouse suite in what appeared to be a rather new, and relatively expensive looking hotel.

As they crossed the threshold into the lobby Christine's feel slowed. Like the concert hall, the hotel interior was clean and modern. Rich upholstered couches dotted the entrance hall, set in among gleaming marble columns. Light streamed in through paneled windows, hitting gold accents and providing the space with a feeling of richness and warmth. Here and there patrons lounged on chairs, reading newspapers, sipping coffees or brandy and smoking cigarettes. Several of them looked towards their group with undisguised interest as they entered.

Sensing her hesitation Erik turned and gave her a concerned look.

‘Are you sure you are happy for me to accompany you? If you prefer, I could request Miss Fleck rejoin us.’ 

Christine smiled weakly, was he suggesting they required a chaperone?

‘No, please do not trouble her. This is absolutely fine.’ She lifted her chin slightly in defiance. With Gustave’s face it was inevitable that people would begin to speculate about the nature of their relationship and the ‘business’ Erik conducted with her. So be it - there was very little she could do to hide the truth now, but she would not have him think that she was still a fainting little chorus girl, unable to protect herself from the all powerful Phantom if she needed to. She was not afraid of him any more.

Still, it was not without a sense of trepidation that she followed him into the elevator, noting that he did not stop to speak to any of the staff, nor explain their purpose in being there, and commanded the attendant to take them to the top floor.

The suite was utterly exquisite. And enormous.

The elevator opened onto another small ornate lobby, and from there Erik had led them through one of only two doors, situated at opposite ends of the room to each other, and into what could only be described as an enormous parlour. An ornate window opened onto a balcony which looked out over the street towards Phantasma and the rest of Coney Island beyond. At the centre sat a beautiful grand piano, a carved writing desk stood nearby and the walls were lined with bookshelves. Two further doors led off the main area. 

Erik strode purposefully across the room - prefunctually pointing out the furniture, all the while recurring that anything that needed to be changed could be, she just needed to say the word. 

‘This would be Gustave’s room,’ he stated, opening the door to one of the antechambers. ‘If you are happy with the arrangement then I will order a desk and other materials to be installed to allow for the creation of a small study for him too. There is a side room which can be utilised for that purpose’ - he swept an arm towards an adjoining door, before swiftly moving on to another door.

‘And this would be your chamber,’ he felt a blush rise on his cheeks unbidden, and he hoped she did not read anything into it. ‘There is a separate dressing room, as well as access to bathing facilities.’ The blush deepened, and he stepped back from the door swiftly. ‘Please, take your time to explore, I shall wait here until you are done.’ 

He strode quickly across the room away from them, cursing inwardly at how flustered he had become over something so simple as showing her a bedroom. Throwing himself into one of the easy chairs he plucked a book off the nearby bookcase and made a pretense of perusing it, trying to feign a nonchalance he did not feel.

Keeping his eyes trained on the book, he did not hear her approach until she was almost at his side, her voice quiet and grave as she spoke his name. 

‘Erik, please. We cannot accept this’ she stated firmly.

Eriks eyes flew wide with panic. No, no. Not yet, he was not ready to lose her yet. Surely she should give him more time, time to change whatever it was which was causing the expression of grave displeasure to settle over her face now.

‘You cannot?’ he stuttered, unsure of how to proceed or what to stay to change her mind.

‘No,’ she said, her voice softening slightly. ‘Surely you can see that. It is far, far too much. Not at all necessary.’

His brow creased as he took in her words. ‘Too much? Not necessary?’ he repeated slowly.

‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘This place must cost a fortune! We have no need of anything half so grand. I cannot believe you install all of your performers in grand hotels. Please, whatever you would normally do for them will be fine for us too. There is no need to run yourself to such extravagance on our behalf, although we do very much appreciate the gesture’ she added hastily, noting the strange expression which now flitted across his face.

A surge of relief passed through his breast when he realised what she was protesting and he let out an involuntary chuckle. The expense, of all things! As if anything was too much expense for her, or his son. Still, at least on that he could set her straight. 

‘My dear - it is no expense, I assure you.’

Christine’s back straightened, and she frowned at him. ‘I am no simpleton sir, I assure you I can recognise an expensive hotel when I see one,’ she hissed. ‘Might I remind you that I was once, albeit briefly, a Vicomtesse?’

Erik balked. He needed no reminder of that at all. ‘No, no indeed.’ he stuttered. ‘Please be assured, I meant no slight on your observational skills. This is indeed, as you state, an expensive hotel. I simply meant that it is no expense to me. This is  _ my  _ expensive hotel - I would be in debt to nobody but myself for your stay.’

Christine’s mouth dropped open in surprise, and Erik seized the opportunity to reinforce his point.

‘On the whole we have very good occupancy, and I flatter myself that we have one of the better reputations in the area. We attract a respectable clientele, but the season is not so busy that I myself turning people away for want of rooms. These suites have never yet been occupied.

I confess, when I designed them, I was hoping that I might expand the repertoire of the music hall and attract a few more shall we say  _ refined  _ artists. These would have been their quarters.’

He looked at her shyly. ‘In this instance I do not see that in offering them to you I have deviated from my original purpose.’

A silence fell over the room, punctuated only by Gustave’s stifled yawning. Christine stared at her shoes in confusion, unsure of the reason for her embarrassment.

‘Forgive me,’ she muttered, ‘I did not realise. I do not wish to seem ungrateful, you are being very generous. It is just…’

‘No, indeed,’ Erik replied hastily, ‘please do not apologise. There is nothing to forgive. I should have explained myself better. Perhaps I have been too hasty - I should have allowed you more time to - to process some of today’s revelations. I did not mean to overwhelm you.’

Christine let out a shaky laugh. ‘It  _ is  _ rather grand.’

A sadness passed over Erik’s face as he replied, ‘You should have been on the finest stages of Europe. You should have been used to this - expected this.’

‘Perhaps’ she replied, meeting his eye steadily. ‘Or perhaps that was always a childish dream. It does not signify. I have since learned to put the past behind me, and make the most of the present. I must try and remember to follow my own philosophy today it seems.’

A sharp rap at the door caused them all to jump.

‘Enter!’ Erik barked.

A smartly dressed young man wheeled a trolly into the room liberally stacked with cold cuts, sweet cakes and a steaming pot of tea. He bowed at Erik, and then existed again swiftly. 

Erik released a long sigh, admonishing himself inwardly. Why was he so ridiculously tense? All he needed to be was a calm, gracious and unthreatening host for a short while more. Surely he could do that without growling at unsuspecting passers by, couldn’t he?

‘I hope you do not mind - I took the liberty of ordering a small supper for you both. I thought that you might be in need of some sustenance.’ 

Christine looked towards Gustave, who was still unsucessfuly trying to stifle his ever increasing yawns.

‘Thank you.’ she said, beckoning her son closer.

‘Do you still take sugar in your tea?’ he said, his eyebrow lifting as he held up the teapot.

‘Yes,’ said Christine blushing. ‘I had a teacher once who was most adamant it would ruin my voice. I’m afraid I never managed to break the habit, although I suspect he was probably right. He usually was about that kind of thing.’

‘He sounds like an absolute tyrant’

A soft laugh escaped Christine’s lips. ‘No,’ she said sadly. ‘He was many things, but never really that.’

He paused momentarily, and then passed a teacup to her, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance, ‘I imagine this has been quite a trying day…’

Christine’s eyebrow quirked at him over the rim. Was that an attempt at humour?

They sat a while longer in peaceable silence, Christine chewing thoughtfully while Erik sipped his tea. He did not eat, she noticed. Some things at least never really changed. 

Beside her, settled into the sumptuous upholstered sofa, his belly now stuffed full with tea and cake, Gustave began to wilt, his head nodding slowly until it lolled completely back and he began to emit a soft snore. 

Christine laughed. ‘Well, somebody feels well enough at home at least it seems.’ She did not miss the soft, almost tender look that passed over Erik’s eyes as he looked toward his sleeping form.

‘I trust you both enjoyed your tour today?’ he said, still keeping his eyes on the boy. Had he asked her that already today? He thought he probably had. It was funny, the day seemed to be going far too fast, and yet, at the same time he felt that it had been longer than even the longest week.

‘We did’ she answered softly. ‘We probably ought to be going however.’

‘Yes.’ A simple statement, but one which felt like it had been pulled from him without consent. No, he wanted to say. Stay. Please, please stay.

‘Before I leave, will you answer me one question?’ 

‘Ask - I will answer as best I can.’

‘Tell me, truthfully - what is this place?’ 

His eyes snapped up to hers and a strange expression flitted across them. She could not tell whether it was pain, sorrow, shame, or some other guilty sense of recognition. He knew she did not mean it in the literal sense. After all, was she not the only other person in the world who could possibly have seen the park in at least part of the same way that he did. He contemplated bluffing, momentarily at least, reluctant to bare his inner shame to her of all people, but he knew it was useless. She would see right through him. She had always seen right through him in the end - right to the small, squirming, pathetic and lost little thing that he really was.

‘It is my soul.’ He answered simply. ‘What little I have of it, at least.’

She frowned, an unspoken question forming on her lips.

‘That night,’ he began, his voice wavering slightly. ‘That night below the opera, with you and the boy. You told me - you told me that my face no longer held any horror for you. That it was my soul where the ugliness and distortion lay. ’

A flood of shame washed over Christine as she heard her own words repeated back at herself and saw reflected in his eyes the pain they had caused. She opened her mouth to protest, and then caught herself - what on earth could she say? It would be an untruth to take it back, no matter how she might regret the hurt done at the time.

He smiled sadly, as if acknowledging her inner struggle.

‘No, no - you were right. You know who I have been and what I have done. The blood that is on my hands. The pain and the horror that I have caused. Look what I did to you! You, who I professed to love more than anyone or anything else in the world. And still... Well, that does not matter now - it was not love. I see it now. At the time I thought it was, but time and distance have taught me otherwise. I understand now, that is not how love works.’

He paused, his eyes bent down on his own hands, his voice softening and becoming more distant. 

‘No, you were right, you were right. I didn’t know it at the time, but those words entered my heart and they have stayed there ever since, and when I thought you were gone it seemed that the only fitting tribute was to take heed of them and try to make amends. It is something to know you are ugly on the outside - there is very little one can do about that, no matter how much one might wish. To realise that you have also let yourself become ugly on the inside, now that is something else. No matter how much I might have protested that the cruelty of the world made me what I was, the fact remains that I let them. After a lifetime of hiding from mirrors, you held one up to me and showed me my true reflection.

I spent my whole life hiding from my past, but here I can hide no more. Here is everything made real and yet unreal, and I must tend it all daily - I built this place as both my penitence and my redemption I suppose - a mirror for my soul if you will, lest I be tempted to turn away and forget again.’

He shook his head slightly, as if trying to rid himself of the thought.

‘And, I suppose, thinking practically, a man must live somehow mustn’t he? And although I flatter myself that I am a man of many talents, it seems that, externally at least, this is what I was formed for.’

‘Indeed,’ thought Christine, ‘a man must live.’ And he was just a man - hadn’t she said that herself all those years ago. 

He sighed, and stood, placing the envelope containing the contract into her hands. 

‘I have kept you too long. I do not mean to pressure you - you need have no fear of any retribution. Please, take time to consider my offer. Take all the time you need, and should it be your choice to join us, we will be waiting for you.’

She blinked at him, and bent to wake her sleeping son, averting her face from his gaze.

‘Come, darling, it is time for us to return home.’

Gustave blinked blearily, and rose to follow her, his feet dragging sleepily at her side as they crossed to the door and made their way into the elevator.

The journey back down seemed to last much longer than it had on the way up. The party exited into the foyer and gestured towards the exit.

‘Well, here we are,’ he said, wondering the moment the words left his lips what on earth that meant and why he said it. Stupid. Stupid.

His thin long fingered hand paused in mid air, frozen half way in the impulse to reach out and touch her. It trembled slightly, before he dropped it again to his side, clasping it with his other and wringing them earnestly.

‘Truthfully Christine,’ he said, his voice almost a whisper. ‘I am very, very sorry. For everything.’

She stared at him wide eyed for a moment, and then gathering a sleepy Gustave to her side, started toward the exit.

‘Thank you,’ she muttered, pausing momentarily with her back still to him. ‘Erik,’ she continued, her voice soft and questioning. ‘This place, whatever it is - it is beautiful. You know that, don’t you?’ She turned her head and flicked her eyes to his briefly. ‘Well, good night.’

Standing forlornly in the lobby, almost incognizant of the other guests coming and going around him Erik pressed his fists into his eyes in frustration. He was doomed. To have her so close and know that she would still be forever distant. In some ways it had been easier when he thought her dead. What on earth was he to do? What about the boy? Could he be a father? Would she want him to be a father? And if she said no - what then? In all his years, despite everything he had endured, he had never felt so helpless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely no chapter title inspiration for this one it seems! Oh well. Here you go - now the ball is firmly in Christine's court, so what's she gonna do...


	9. The face in the mirror

There was a carriage waiting for them immediately outside of the hotel lobby. Of course there was. In hindsight she was surprised that he had allowed them to arrive for the meeting on foot, but then it was at least still light then. She should have known that he would not allow them to walk back again in the dark - he had always been so concerned for her safety before - well, before it all went wrong. She stared vacantly out of the carriage window, allowing the gentle rocking motion to soothe her. Beside her, Gustave yawned heavily again, valiantly fighting against sleep.

They arrived at the door of their lodgings and slowly trudged up the stairs to their rooms, ignoring the sound of shouting coming from the neighbours. On the whole it wasn’t a bad building - the residents were generally respectable, if a little, well,  _ colourful.  _ But then, what could she expect from a landlord who was willing to rent a single woman with a spectacularly deformed child - a woman who worked in  _ theatre  _ at that. The rooms looked even smaller and dingier than usual after the opulence of the hotel, but they were warm, and dry, and they were hers, and so long as they kept Gustave safe that was all that really mattered. 

She guided her son over to a small cot in the corner of the room and helped him undress for bed. His eyes looked at her blearily as she tucked him in under the thick worn quilt.

‘Mama,’ he asked, his voice syrupy with sleep. ‘Are you mad at me?’

Christine smoothed a hand over his wispy hair and sighed ‘No, my darling - why would you think that?’

‘You look sad,’ he said softly. ‘I thought you might have been mad that I had been meeting with Monsieur Erik without telling you.’

‘No, I wasn’t mad. But I was worried - anything could have happened to you.’

‘I’m sorry Mama,’ he yawned widely, ‘it’s just, I didn’t want him to stop coming, and I thought if you knew you might tell me it was wrong.’

She placed a gentle kiss on his forehead and stood up.

‘Never mind - you know better now. But next time make sure you tell me everything. Not everyone is as they seem on first acquaintance.’

‘Yes Mama,’ he said, his voice slurring. There was a brief pause.

‘Mama?’

‘Mmm?’ 

‘What did you mean when you told that man you and Monsieur Erik were old friends? Have you met him before?’

She froze, a wave of panic washing over her momentarily.

‘I - we, that is, we met once - before.’

‘Before?’ his voice struggling to break through the waves of sleep that were lapping at his edges.

‘Before you.’

‘Oh’ 

His breathing deepened, and his soft snores told her he had finally drifted to sleep. She ran a hand roughly over her face and sighed. Stepping deftly over the creaking floorboard to avoid waking him she crossed to her own room, no more than a small closet off the main room, and sat down slowly on the bed, staring at her own reflection in the mirror which hung on the wall.

The face which looked back at her was pale with red rimmed eyes and a haunted expression. Even the brown hair piled on the top of her haid, normally her crowning glory and her only remaining vanity looked frazzled and tired.

‘Oh my girl,’ she breathed, ‘what will you do with yourself now?’

The face stared back at her still - its eyes blinking wildly. She shook her head.

How many years had she dreamed about this happening? All those nights sitting up, her fingers numb and her eyes aching from sewing beads onto costumes in the dim light, Gustave grizzling in the cot beside her. She would sit up, singing softly to herself and imagine him bursting in through the door, his eyes blazing, his angel’s voice washing over her as he promised to take her and keep her safe, to guide her and guard her as he had before. Sometimes in her sleep she dreamed she heard him singing to her softly from the end of the bed and woke, her heart full of longing, to find that there was nobody there. 

Then came the anger, the painful realisation that he was gone, that he was never going to return, that he had  _ left her.  _ She recalled bitterly how he had tricked her into believing that he was her Angel of Music, taken her grief over her father and manipulated it to his own purpose until she had come to rely on him for everything and he became like the very air in her lungs. He had raised her up to new heights and then just when it seemed that heaven was in her grasp he had shattered it all, pulling her down deep into his pit of blackest night, revealing himself to be nothing but a man, made up of anger and vengeance. He had taken her and broken her, and not just her, broken everything that she held dearest, Raoul, the opera, her innocence and her memories of her father, and even then,, in the midst of her confusion and fear and sorrow, she had still loved him through it all. And when she returned to him, thinking that if they could just be together, if he could just be her angel again that it would all be ok, he had taken that love, used it up, and then flung it back at her like a dirty rag, leaving her alone and empty, crying for him in the dawn’s light.

How she had hated him then. Then she had wished he would come for her so that she could take him and tear him to pieces - make him ache and burn as she had done before turning him out in the cold. The anger had fueled her, given her purpose to rise up and move on, but even that was transient, and eventually it burned away, leaving nothing but cold acceptance in its wake. 

And now? What did she feel now?

The face in the mirror sagged. Oh god, she did not know. She felt tired. Confused and tired. She threw the envelope with the contract in it onto the chair and curled up on the bed. It was several hours before sleep was finally able to take her.

The next morning she rose wearily after a night of broken dreams punctuated by eyes, sometimes weeping, sometimes smouldering, sometimes shooting flames of anger, but always the same deep burning amber. It was still there, taunting her. She refused to look at it. Instead, she dressed again in her usual black garb, lit the stove to put on a fresh pot of coffee and went to wake her son. She busied herself all day, cleaning, and re-arranging the apartment, even though it was already perfectly clean and they did not have enough possessions for it to have gotten in disarray.

Several times Gustave tried to talk to her about the park, its attractions and its occupants. Each time she would clatter pans, drag furniture or beat the draperies loudly and pretend she did not hear him. She could not, she told herself. Not yet.

She decided to forgo lunch, claiming an upset stomach and busying herself at the stove while Gustave ate. She could not bear the idea of silence or stillness, and she dreaded the prospect of conversation.

They left the apartment at their usual time and headed toward the theatre. She held her son’s hand tightly all the way there. Glancing anxiously about them as they walked. A tall, thin gentleman crossed the street ahead of them and her stomach lurched wildly, her chest tightening. It was not him. She did not want to think about the strange feeling of disappointment that followed.

Within her dressing room she could not help notice how Gustave kept glancing hopefully at the window, his eyes sparkling with excitement. That must be how he arrived then, through the window. That did seem to fit with his idiom. She wondered if the man even knew how to use a normal door… Would he come tonight? She suppressed a little shiver. Once upon a time he would never have missed any opportunity to hear her sing. 

She stepped off the stage and cautiously peered up. There was no sign of the glowing eyes, no unearthly whisper or fleeting shadow to suggest he was there. The theatre thrummed with life around her, and yet somehow felt empty - he had not come. The miserable expression on her son’s face as he sat forlornly at the piano in the dressing room on her return suggested that the situation here had been no different than it had been on stage.

‘What’s wrong darling?’

‘He didn’t come.’

She sighed.

‘Oh. Well, he is a very busy man. And we did take up a lot of his time yesterday. Perhaps he was just preoccupied with business?’ Perhaps...

His face lifted a little ‘Perhaps he will come tomorrow then?’

She offered him a small smile as reassurement. She wasn’t sure if she hoped he would, or would not.

The next five days continued much the same. Every day she woke with a strange, clawing feeling in her stomach, the white envelope taunting her. Every day she pushed the feeling down, smothering it as best she could, and pushed on with her day. Every day he did not come, and every day her son’s face fell further and further.

‘I’m sure he is just very, very busy,’ she tried to sooth him. ‘It is a long way from Phantasma to the theatre, and we cannot expect him to always be running around after us, can we?’ She forced a lightness into her voice which she did not feel.

Gustave seemed to think about this for a moment.

‘Might we go and visit him then, Mama?’ he asked, his eyes hopeful and bright.

‘No.’ Her reply came out more forcefully than she intended, and she watched him wince at it. ‘No,’ she repeated more softly, ‘I do not think that would be appropriate.’

‘But he’s my friend Mama,’ he pushed. ‘And he invited us to visit before. He always used to come and see me. What if he is ill? May we not go and visit him just once?’

‘I said no, Gustave.’ she replied wearily.

‘But…’ he began.

‘Enough!’ she cried, turning to face him sternly. His face crumpled.

‘Why doesn’t he come any more?’ he sniffled.

She sat down on the cot beside him, deflated. ‘I don’t know.’ she replied. ‘I am sorry. I’m sure he has his reasons.’ She thought again of the envelope on her chair in her bedroom. She knew the reason. He was waiting for her answer.

‘Is it because of me?’ he whispered, his voice catching.

‘Oh darling!’ she cried, ‘why would you think that?’

‘People don’t like me, Mama.’ he replied sadly. ‘I know that.’

‘No, darling,’ she replied, stroking his head gently. ‘It is not because of you. I am sure it is not because of you.’

She remained by his side until the sniffles slowly subsided into soft snores and his ragged little face relaxed into something resembling peace, his wet eyelashes shut softly against puffy eyelids, the tracks of tears slowly drying on the crevices of his skin.

Oh my brave, brave son, she thought sadly, a resolve forming itself within her breast.

Quietly, she crossed her bedroom door, slipping inside and picking up the envelope from the chair. She slid the contract out, reading over the terms. She could not deny it, they were extremely generous. Everything had been considered, from the number of performances (evenings daily, with one day off weekly and two matinees a week), to a wardrobe allowance (very generous) and the hiring of tutors for Gustave’s education. She could not fault it - it really was an excellent opportunity - the sort of thing she would only have dreamed of as a girl. And yet still she hesitated. It was not the job which she was unsure of she acknowledged, it was whether she could trust herself to let  _ him  _ back into her life.

Gustave’s pained, tear stained face flashed before her eyes. Enough indecision - it was time.

Make your choice...

She fixed the face in the mirror with a determined stare and forced herself to  _ remember. _ She thought back to the days in her dressing room and the voice behind the mirror. How it would listen to her talk for hours and hours about her father and his stories, their home in Sweden and their travels. She made herself remember the flush of pride she felt when he praised her in her lessons and recalled the soaring elation she felt when she took in the applause on stage. With a shudder, she remembered her first visit with him below, the beautiful, aching longing his music had brought, and the overwhelming terror which consumed her when she first saw his face. She remembered his anger and his anguish, and remembered her shame at being its cause. She recalled the sickening horror she had felt at the death of Buquet and Piangi. The oppressive anxiety which followed her around all those silent months in between, and the guilt she felt with Raoul whenever she momentarily allowed herself to feel happy. She vividly remembered the sense of unease which had built in her as their plans to trap him began to unfold, and her aching sorrow as he pleaded for her love on stage, before sweeping her away.

She forced herself to think back to the terror of that night under the opera house. She had been afraid for Raoul, yes, but she realised her terror had also been for  _ him  _ and what might become of him. And although she had felt overwhelming anger towards him for his treatment of her, the lies, the manipulation and the violence, she had never once felt truly afraid of his intentions for herself. She feared being hurt by accident as he lashed out in hurt and panic, but never once that he might have intended to harm her. And then there had been the sense of  _ rightness  _ in the feel of his lips on her lips, her hands on his face and his body pressed against hers. That had surprised her the most - just when she felt that she should have hated him forever, she found she could not. 

She sighed. How could one man inspire so many conflicting emotions?

She forced herself to probe deeper and look harder.

She recalled the last time she had challenged herself to reconcile her feelings about this man. That search to understand had led her to seek him out that dark and moonless night, a decision which arguably set her inextricably on the path which she now found herself, and left herself with a whole new set of feelings to add to her list.

There was the rub - the point where it all became so difficult to face. For all it would have been easier to focus on the wrongs and the pain and dismiss him out of mind, when it was right it was  _ so right.  _ As her Angel and The Voice he had been her dearest friend and confidant, and as her tutor he had been her greatest inspiration and champion, and as her lover he had been tender, passionate, and, she thought with a deep blush, once the initial bashful fumbling had passed, he had been  _ so good. _ After all that they had been to each other, could they manage something so simple as a formal business relationship?

What was it he had said? ‘ _ It was not love, I see it now.’  _ That had stung - why?

_ Because it hurt your pride,  _ she told herself. Was that it? Was the horrible crushing sensation in her chest simply wounded pride at the loss of a love which had never really been hers in the first place? No, it was something deeper than that. She looked again. 

It was not just  _ pride  _ she realised, it was a more profound sense of loss. It was the realisation that everything she had thought to be true was no more. Despite all the pain and anger and loss and betrayal, she had known herself to be loved. She had held that in her heart’s core - that everything, all of it had been somehow worth it because she had known that deep and profound love - even if she hadn’t recognised it until it was too late and it was already lost to her, it had been hers.  _ She  _ had inspired that depth of feeling, that violence of passion and that anguish and despair. Their music had been born of it and it had been terrible and beautiful. Her son and her voice had been the legacy of it. He had been hers as much as she had always been his. 

That knowledge had been her rock and foundation it seemed, throughout all the trauma, and the intervening years of emptiness and isolation. She had been holding on to her Angel of Music all this time, and now she was having to face the fact that he really was gone, and in his place there was just Erik. He was penitent, and generous, but he had made it very, very clear that he had faced the past and moved on.

And there came the root of it - now she must too, and when faced with that thought, Christine had to admit she was scared. 

The face in the mirror looked back with sympathy.

‘So, what do we do?’ she asked herself.

From the cot in the adjacent room she heard Gustave turn in his sleep and give a muffled sniffle. She had her answer. It didn’t matter what she felt, or how terrified she might be, for the sake of her son,  _ their  _ son, she had to be brave and move on.

She took a deep breath. She could do this. She had survived without him when she thought he was dead and realised that nobody was coming to save her any more. She had saved  _ herself.  _ If she could create a life for herself out of nothing with a child in tow, she could certainly survive working alongside Erik. Their past did not have to define her - she was still  _ Christine.  _ She was a singer - this was a singing job - more to the point, it was a good, steady singing job, with benefits! She would be mad to turn it down.

The face in the mirror gave a firm smile and nodded.

She stood - yes, she could do this. She  _ would  _ do this. But first she needed to finally change out of this god awful black dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to everyone who has left comments on this so far - I appreciate them so much.
> 
> If you're on tumblr give me a look up - I'm on there as BozzleBoz - feel free to give me a shout, send me an ask or share writing prompts with me. I'm already starting to plot what I can work on once I finish up with this! If there are any plot holes or questions about this universe you'd like me to fill out, I'd love to know!


	10. Seal my fate

Six days. Six bloody awful, excruciating days. 

Erik slammed his fists into the keyboard of his piano. She wasn’t going to come back, he knew it.

Pages of music were strewn about his office floor. It’d started almost the hour that she had left, and he hadn’t been able to stop since. At first the melodies had been soaring and beautiful - he’d lost hours to them, immersed once again as inspiration coursed through him. He had allowed himself to dream of her standing on his stage, singing his music again and for a moment he felt more alive than he had in many, many years. As the days passed the music had changed, still achingly beautiful to anyone who heard it, but now imbued with an almost unbearable sadness. He wanted it to stop, but it wouldn’t - it just kept coming.

He wasn’t sleeping. Not that he was much of a sleeper anyway, but now it evaded him entirely, only sneaking up on him fleetingly at moments when he least expected it leaving him feeling disoriented and vulnerable. He’d snapped at a performer in rehearsal when they repeatedly failed to hit their mark, and he’d nearly been overcome by the urge to completely dismember the mechanical elephant and all the other ridiculous, taunting automatons when it had failed again. He’d actually found himself cowering and rocking at the back of the exhibit, completely overcome by the urge to break  _ something. _ He was losing his control, so carefully built up over all these years. It was terrifying. 

Fearing he might do something stupid and regrettable in his madness, he’d excused himself from the daily running of the park, claiming headaches as his reason and had locked himself away and thrown himself into writing. If he couldn’t stop and he couldn’t sleep then he might as well give in and see what came of it. If nothing else, experience told him that eventually he would collapse of exhaustion, and then at least there would be a temporary end to it, if only for a little while.

He tried to remember to eat the small meals Miss Fleck brought to his door. Twice now he had left the park and started to walk to the theatre, telling himself he just wanted to see her, to be sure that she was still well and nothing had befallen her since they last met. Each time he had caught himself part way there and forced himself to return home, reminding himself of the promise he made to give her space - horrified at how quickly he was tempted to slip back into his old habits. After over ten years he had thought he had conquered the mania, but apparently it had just been sleeping. He laughed bitterly to himself. Better she did not come after all, if this was what she would have to contend with. Still a monster under it all.

A hesitant knock sounded at the door. He growled in frustration.

‘What is it?’ he barked. He had no patience for stupid, petty questions today.

‘Sir…’ Miss Fleck’s voice came from the other side of the door. He sighed and strode over to it, opening it a fraction so that only his eyes could be seen, glowering through the crack.

‘I asked to be left alone’, he stated, his voice soft and slightly dangerous.

‘I know, sir,’ she replied quickly, her eyes widening, ‘but…’ she gestured ever so subtly with her head to something,  _ someone  _ behind her.

His head snapped up, and he almost choked.

‘One moment!’ he ground out, slamming the door behind him and looking about him in despair.

She was here _.  _ Oh god, she was  _ here. _

Frantically, he rushed forward, trying to tidy the scattered papers into a pile and locate his coat and mask from amongst the chaos. He found it flung under a sofa, and with a trembling hand placed it on his face, smoothing the hair of his wig down as he went. 

His clothing was creased and he felt grimy. He flung open a window, hoping desperately that the room didn’t smell awful, that  _ he  _ didn’t smell awful. Hastily he dug out a cone of the scented incense which he had been so fond of when he had travelled in his youth and lit it, coughing as the smoke tickled his sinuses. 

Wonderful, now the place looked  _ and  _ smelled like an opium den. No matter - there was nothing more he could do now. Why had she come? He hadn’t expected her to come. Surely a note, yes or no, would have sufficed. 

He was not ready for this. He actually felt faint - he briefly wondered when he had last eaten. Yesterday perhaps? Or perhaps the day before - it all seemed the same.

Breathing deeply, he crossed to the door, and before he could talk himself out of it, wrenched it open.

‘My apologies,’ he said, trying to disguise the fluster in his voice, ‘I was not expecting you.’

He stood back.

‘Please, won't you come in?’ 

He looked at her warily as she crossed the threshold. She looked  _ different?  _ Her eyes were slightly red, and tired looking, and he found himself wondering if he had been the only one who had found sleep evaded him the past few nights, but something had changed in the way she carried herself. There was something firmer in her step, and the way she held her head. 

Miss Fleck hovered in the doorway, looking at him expectantly.

‘Tea?’ he said weakly. Once again he was struck by how inadequate an opening to conversation that question was. He was a coward.

She smiled slightly, as if she sensed his discomfort, and nodded. ‘Yes, thank you. That would be wonderful.’ 

Erik nodded at Miss Fleck, who darted from the doorway. Christine looked about her and began to remove her gloves.

He noted she had done away with the widow's garb, opting instead for a modest, but infinitely more becoming deep purple ensemble. He tried not to stare at her.

‘You have been busy?’ she asked, inclining her head toward the now precariously stacked piled of music on the top of the piano.

He nodded, spreading his hands wide before him to reveal the deep inky stains on his fingers.

To his surprise, Christine let out a soft laugh. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Just as I remember them.’

They sat down, both awkwardly looking about the room and trying to avoid making eye contact.

Miss Fleck returned with the tea things, placing them on the table between them and then silently exiting the room, closing the door behind her.

Wordlessly, Erik poured, handing one to Christine before taking a long, burning gulp of his own.

‘I thought you had run.’ he blurted, before he was even quite aware of what he was saying.

She nodded. ‘I thought about it.’

‘Then why are you here?’ he asked, hardly sure if he wanted to know the answer.

From within her muff, Christine pulled the contract, placing it onto the table before her.

‘This is a very generous offer,’ she stated simply.

Erik stared fixedly at the paperwork before him, unable to move.

‘I accept,’ she continued. Erik’s heart stopped momentarily, and then lurched back into life beating in double time.

_ ‘What?’  _ he breathed, snapping his eyes up to hers.

She pushed the contract toward him. ‘I said, I accept.  _ But,  _ I do have two further conditions, if you do not mind?’

‘Go on…’ he said, hardly daring to take his eyes off her.

‘Firstly,’ she began, ‘I do not wish to perform as Madame Skygga. It is time I left the disguise behind.’

He frowned ‘Then who?’ he began.

‘Well, I cannot very well perform as Christine Daaé - as you know, she is dead, and though I am very far away and everything was so many years ago, I do not think it would do either of us any favours to resurrect her. There are too many  _ ghosts _ ,’ she raised her eyebrow knowingly, ‘which we do not wish to draw attention to.’

She opened the contract to the final page and pushed it toward him.

‘Nylund?’ he asked.

‘My mother’s maiden name’ she replied. ‘The next best thing.’

He nodded. ‘Of course. And the second condition?’

She sighed, placing her cup back on the table and looking at him squarely in the eyes. ‘We need to talk about Gustave.’

He swallowed convulsively and nodded and said ‘Of course,’ hoping that that was the most appropriate, responsible and fatherly sounding response to that statement. Then moments later, when she still said nothing, he added lamely, ‘What about him?’

Christine appeared to be struggling to formulate the words for what she wished to say. For a moment, her jaw worked silently and her brow furrowed. ‘I wish…’ she began, ‘no, I  _ need  _ to know what your intentions are toward him.’ 

‘My intentions?’ he asked incredulously. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

She spread her hands in front of herself apologetically, and shrugged.

‘I’m not really sure,’ she offered him a weak smile. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t wish to appear defensive, or mysterious about this, but I suppose I am asking which version of you you intend to be for him. How you intend to involve yourself in his life?’

Erik sighed. ‘I do not know,’ he replied in a small voice. ‘I do not know if I have the right to be involved at all - but, if you would let me - if he wants me to be, I should like to be.’ He shifted awkwardly in his seat. ‘I have no idea what it means to be a father, having never had one myself. I do not know if I am able…’ He bowed his head into his hands and rested his elbows onto the table - if he wanted to prove to Christine that he was entirely expendable and superfluous to their lives, he was doing a fantastic job of it now, he thought.

For a moment he looked so small and vulnerable that Christine was seized with the urge to reach out across the table and take his hands into her own to comfort him, but no sooner had her hands twitched and begun to move towards him, he jerked back convulsively, and slid himself backwards as if to create more space between them. She quickly placed her hands into her lap and schooled her face into a neutral expression, before she continued.

‘Gustave is - how do I put this - he is a sensitive child. I do not mean he is temperamental, or that he is easily upset - but he feels things very deeply. He would never tell me this directly, but I fear he is a lonely child.’ She sighed, ‘I  _ know  _ he is a lonely child. He hides it from me because he knows it upsets me, but he is not as immune to the staring and taunting as he appears.’ She looked at Erik meaningfully. ‘You, of all people will understand and appreciate this, I think.’

Erik nodded sadly.

‘I have done my best to protect him from the worst of it over the years, but I fear, for my pains, I have simply taught him to turn the other cheek and accept it. We have been each other's only companionship and solace for too long.

To be truthful, it would not matter how much or how little I wished for you to be in his life now. It is too late for that. If you could have seen him these past five days - he misses you terribly Erik.’

Erik’s mouth formed a small ‘O’ of surprise. ‘I did not think,’ he stuttered, ‘I did not realise…’

She smiled sadly. ‘Of course not. I don’t think he realised himself until you stopped coming.’ She took a deep breath and steeled herself, ‘The world is not a friendly place for people like Gustave - I am sure I don’t need to tell you this. There is nobody else but you who can truly understand what it means to be him. He needs you.’

She looked at him sadly for a moment, and then appearing to recollect herself, drew herself up taller and continued.

‘Of course - I don’t wish you to encourage him to develop some of your more  _ unsavory  _ coping mechanisms,’ He winced at the implication in her words ‘but I do wish for him to have the opportunity to know you better. I  _ hope  _ he might confide in you and rely on you to advise him, should the time come that he needs to.’

Erik looked at her incredulously. ‘You think  _ I  _ can do this? You want  _ me  _ to be his guide through the world? Christine, I hardly think I am qualified!’

‘I know you can,’ she replied simply. ‘You did it for me.’

Erik’s mouth dropped open in surprise. ‘ _ Pardon?’ _

‘Those first few months - before  _ everything else,  _ you were my best friend and confidant. You were there when I needed you Erik, I shall never forget that. You can do it again. Be his Angel of Music as you were mine.’ She looked at him seriously seeing his eyes widen in surprise, or was that fear? ‘Think of it as a second chance - a chance to get it right this time.’

‘A second chance?’ Erik breathed. Oh! How much meaning could be read into those words, if only he dared.

‘Yes.’ 

‘And who am I to him?’ he asked, uncertainly. ‘How much does he know?’

Christine blushed deeply. ‘He knows what we are old acquaintances from before he was born. More than that I have not said.’

Erik nodded. ‘Is he ever to know?’ 

She looked up at him with wide eyes. ‘I do not know.’ 

Erik felt himself deflate. She did not want him to know he was his father. He supposed it was understandable really.

‘It’s not that I don’t want him to know,’ she continued, as if she had seen the thoughts going through his head. ‘It’s just, I remember what it felt like to lose my father. And then when I thought I had found my Angel of Music I lost him too, and I cannot put Gustave through the pain of losing both at once if…’ she stumbled slightly, ‘well, if things were to go wrong again.’ She looked at Erik, wincing in anticipation. 

‘I’m sorry…’ she added. 

He said nothing. Even if he had had the words to contradict what she had said, he would not have been able to make them come. It was if she had kicked him directly in the stomach, and it was all he could do to keep breathing in and out. 

Steeling himself, he nodded slowly, and then picked up the contract, shuffling and tapping it’s pages to busy himself until he felt sure enough that he would be able to speak without his voice betraying him.

‘Yes. Well’ he began, ‘I believe everything should be in order then. Do you have a date on which you should like to start?’

She blinked at him rapidly. 

‘I thought - a fortnight hence? That should give me time to complete my existing commitments, and give notice on my accommodation.’

He nodded stiffly.

‘Very well then. I will have everything in readiness for you joining us in a fortnight’s time.’

‘Thank you’ she replied, rising from her chair and putting out her hand. ‘I look forward to fruitful working relationship.’

He looked at her hand momentarily as if it were an alien object, and then, recollecting himself, touched it momentarily with his own before dropping it quickly and moving away.

Christine sighed and began gather her belongings in preparation for leaving. She was almost about to turn and leave when the urge to speak overtook her, and she found herself talking without knowing what she did.

‘Erik - may I ask you question?’

He blinked and dipped his head in acknowledgement. She plunged on before her courage failed her.

‘Do you think… If you had not thought I was dead, all those years ago - if you’d have known, would you have sought me out again? Do you think things could have been different?’

He looked at her, an indefinable expression flitting momentarily behind his eyes.

‘Oh! Undoubtedly.’ he said matter of factly. ‘I was quite, quite mad then. Of course you know this - my behaviour toward you at the time can not have suggested anything else. 

If I had known you to be alive - even if I had not been able to come for you at the time, I am quite sure I would have continued to obsess over you until I became completely deranged. No matter how good my intentions may have been, eventually I would have snapped. Goodness knows what ridiculous ruse I would have invented to try and lure you back. Something wild and badly thought through, I am sure, although I am not sure even I could have topped abducting you and threatening your fiance,’ He let out a short bark of mirthless laughter, ‘Perhaps, knowing me, I would have done something ridiculous like unwittingly threatening the life of my own son to try and gain your attention.’ 

He shuddered.

‘No, I think it is entirely for the best that I believed you were no longer of this earth. I suspect I was the only way I would ever have been persuaded to let go and move on. That is not to say that I do not regret the loss of the opportunity to get to know my son as he grew - but I think it is for the best all round this way. Don’t you?’

She stood still and nodded, before turning her back on him and making towards the door.

‘Christine!’ he called, suddenly. She stopped.

‘One last detail, if you will. I shall need to prepare some paperwork, for the boy. To set up his tuition, and ensure everything is in order for him to be provided for…’

She nodded curtly.

‘Does he, - what  _ name _ does he go by?’ he asked. ‘Not Daae, I presume, given circumstances.’

She shook her head.

‘Certainly not de Changy, I hope’ he continued, unable to keep a note of venom out of his voice momentarily.

‘No!’ she laughed mirthlessly. ‘Certainly not that.’

‘Then what?’ he probed. ‘That is, I am presuming he has papers? Perhaps he does not - given the circumstances it is not unknown. I myself…’ his voice trailed off and he waved his hand vaguely in the air.

A deep blush spread over her cheeks. ‘No, he has no papers.’

‘Of course,’ he replied simply. ‘My apologies. I should have thought.’

‘Is that a problem?’ she asked cautiously.

‘A minor inconvenience’ he replied. ‘For the sake of completeness, there are certain legal documents I should like to be drawn up, which would require some form of identification.’

‘Oh.’ she replied.

‘Of course, for a man with my connections, that is not insurmountable.’ he continued. ‘I could, if you are amenable, have the documents created myself.’

‘Forgeries?’ she asked. He inclined his head fractionaly in acknowledgement.

‘Not ideal, I understand. But given the circumstances…’

Christine twisted her hands together. She had always known that without official documentation Gustave’s path would be limited, but then there were so many other things to limit his options, that she had not really given it much consideration. 

‘And this paperwork?’ she asked suspiciously.

He held his hands up in a gesture of supplication.

'It is nothing that will bind him, or you, to me, I assure you,’ he said quickly. ‘I just wish to ensure that, should our arrangement not work out, or circumstances require it, that he is provided for…’ His eyes pleaded with her to understand. He might never be able to be a proper father, but he would at least see that his son should not want for anything where he could help it again.

She nodded. ‘Of course. Yes, thank you.’

He sighed. ‘The name? Perhaps Nylund?’ 

‘No.’ she replied, an idea forming itself in her head seemingly from nowhere. ‘I would wish for him to have his father’s name, if he is to be respectable at all.’

Erik choked. ‘His father  _ has  _ no name Christine. Not really. There is nothing respectable about me at all.’ 

A look of sorrow passed over her face and she reached for him instinctively, but once again he flinched away.

‘Well then,’ she said slowly, ‘he shall be Gustave Eriksson.’

They stared at each other for a moment in silence, both of them rigid with tension. A range of conflicting emotions passing quickly over Erik’s face, until finally he broke eye contact, staring fixedly out of the office window. Exhaling softly, Christine turned again and swiftly walked out of the door.


	11. To walk on Sundays

Only after the door clicked shut was Erik able to begin to relax his muscles enough to enable him to move. The urge to rush at her and crush her to him, to prostrate himself at her feet and kiss the hem of her skirt and beg for forgiveness, to thank her for this precious glimmer of hope had been almost overwhelming. 

He wanted to whoop and holler and cry and dance, and possibly be sick...

His son, coming to live here at Phantasma, _with Christine._ She wanted him to be in his life - she thought he was a suitable person to help shape and guide this young person through the world. _Him._ She wanted the Angel of Music, _her_ Angel of Music. It was almost too much.

A thought rose unbidden in his head.

‘Ah! But what did she say? You were a perfect substitute for her father, until she saw what a monster you truly are. Never forget that - _that_ is all she saw in you. That is all she will ever see in you - father, tutor, _monster_. That isn’t what you want, is it?’ 

He pushed it away again. He did not want to think of that now. She was coming - they would all be together at last. It did not matter how. It would be _enough._ It had to be enough. He would _make_ it be enough.

Two weeks! He needed to prepare - everything had to be perfect. He flung himself into his desk chair and began frantically scratching out notes and instructions. He would need to organise some publicity for her opening night. She would need new dresses made up for the stage, and perhaps some for her own personal wardrobe - yes, he could give her that, could he not? She would need her own staff - he highly doubted that dingy little theatre paid enough to provide her with the services of a maid.

And music! She would need new music for her performances - he rushed to the piano and began leafing through his compositions. Yes! Some of this would undoubtedly suit - hadn’t he been thinking of her while he wrote them? She would perform some popular classics too of course, but she should have something new and beautiful for her debut, he would see to it.

He sat down at the piano, his hands ghosting over the keys, but no sooner than he had done so then his mind skipped elsewhere. The hotel room! Should he buy fresh drapes and soft furnishings? She hadn’t expressed any displeasure with them during her visit, but then she also hadn’t explicitly said she liked them, He recalled she had previously favoured blues and floral patterns - did she still? 

There was so much to be done, he did not know where to start. He did not know what she favoured any more, her preferred foods, what scent she wore, what books she read, or size gowns she took. He had known all this once - all this and much more. And then of course, there was the boy.

His heart soared and then plummeted at the thought. What on earth did he know of being a father? This boy who would soon bear his name, or as near as he was able to offer. Was he ready to take this on? What were his tastes and preferences? They had spoken of music, of course, but besides music, what did ten year old boys do? His own experience was surely nothing to draw on - by this age he was already travelling with a sideshow, living in squalor enduring endless nights of beatings and jeering. 

A stab of guilt twisted at his guts. It had been almost a week since he had last seen him and Christine had said he had been missing him. His heart gave a strange thump at the thought. Nobody had ever said they missed his presence before. He would remedy that immediately and visit him tonight. Besides which, the boy might be the perfect way to find the answers to some of his many questions.

He hoped that his absence had not harmed their previously easy relationship. He ought to make it up to him. Perhaps a gift? That was what fathers did, wasn’t it? Bought their children gifts? The boy always looked adequately clothed and well fed, but he doubted Christine would have been able to spare much by way of frivolities over the years. It made him shudder to think of the sacrifices she would likely have made to secure the boy’s comfort. He thought he knew just the thing too. 

He glanced at his watch - there was still time. Christine would be due to perform at the theatre that very evening, if he left now he would be able to secure it and return in time to meet them at the theatre. There might even be time to stop at his associate’s on the way there and make arrangements to procure those papers. 

Swiftly he grabbed his coat, and, stopping only to collect a battered case from beside the door, strode out of his office and into the city beyond.

***

Christine made her way wearily from the stage toward her dressing room. It had been a long day and she had never been more keen to be back home in their humble little rooms with nothing but the muffled sounds of their neighbours' conversations to distract her. Of course, it wouldn’t be their home for much longer, would it? Just two weeks and they would be starting a new life, settled in the lap of luxury courtesy of the last man in the world she expected to ever see again. There was a certain irony to it. Once she had been willing to throw everything away for a lifetime in hiding with that man, prepared to disappear underground for the remainder of her years. And now he was the one lifting her up from her grimy existence and bringing her back into the light. 

For a moment she imagined she was back in Paris, regaling her fellow ballet rats with a description of her brand new patron and the luxuries he would bring her. Oh! How they would giggle and squeal, if only they could see her now. She missed that sense of camaraderie, although if truth be told, she was never really one of them. Most likely she would have been sat at the other end of the room listening apart as they told tales of their own conquests. The other girls had never really been her confidants - for that, she had had her Angel of Music.

And now she had her son, she thought, comforting herself. Although it was a sullen and reserved Gustave she had left behind her in the dressing room that evening as she made her way toward the stage. Although he would never say anything to suggest he blamed her, she knew he had not yet forgiven her for refusing to take him to visit his Monsieur Erik, and somehow she had not yet had the courage to tell him of the latest developments. She feared the look of reproach and betrayal in his eyes when she admitted that she had been to speak to Erik alone, but more than that she feared the questions that he might ask, and the answers that she was not yet ready to give.

Her thoughts settled inwards as she wove her way between costume racks, discarded props and pieces of scenery, and the odd performer warming up, or rushing to and from the stage and approached her dressing room. It wasn’t until she almost had her hand on the doorknob that she registered the sound of violins coming from within.

***

It was a slightly flustered Erik that approached the theatre that evening, the brow beneath his mask moist from the exertion of rushing. The damned notary had wittered on and on - why on earth must something as simple as drawing up a will be so damned complicated? He knew exactly what terms he wanted in the blasted thing after all - it was as if the facetious oaf had just wanted to keep him there while he spouted legalese at him for almost an hour to prove his own prowess. It was times like this when he missed being able to threaten and terrify people into doing his own bidding. Politeness was hideously inefficient.

He took his usual route to the dressing room window, cursing under his breath as he fumbled the parcels he carried on the way. This kind of thing was much simpler when one was unencumbered with gifts. Pausing a moment to wipe away the sweat from underneath the mask he peered silently through the window. The boy was sat inside at the piano as was usual, but he did not play. Instead his hands rested on the keys, his brow furrowed as he stared at them in quiet contemplation, the usual appearance of contentment missing from his face. 

The worm of guilt twisted in Erik’s stomach again. Christine said he had been missing him - but surely this was not because of him. Perhaps something had happened to make him more subdued. He paused, worrying the inside of his lip with his teeth. He had not expected to feel so apprehensive on visiting - in the past the visits had seemed natural and easy, with no constraint beyond that of possible discovery. But that was before he had learned the boy was his son. Now the stakes were higher - if the boy decided to reject him, what then? He shuddered momentarily, and then sucking in a deep breath, gently eased the window open and slipped inside.

The boy at the piano wheeled round to face him as he entered, a delighted smile blossoming over his face at the sight of him.

‘Monsieur Erik!’ he cried, leaping off his seat and propelling himself headlong across the room and into Erik’s middle.

Erik let out a surprised huff of air as the boy collided with him, wrapping his arms around his waist tightly. Erik was suddenly thankful that the parcels in his arms spared him the requirement of thinking how to reciprocate.

‘I missed you,’ the boy stated simply. Erik felt his chest constrict.

‘I am sorry,’ he replied gently, looking down at the boy. ‘I have been preoccupied of late, and I had no idea I would be so much missed.’

Gustave released his hold on his waist and stood back to observe him.

‘It was lonely here without you.’ he mumbled, his puffy lips twisting into what could only be described as a pout.

Erik frowned. ‘But surely there are plenty of things to keep you occupied here?’ Erik asked, placing the boxes in his arms down on the floor and gesturing about him. 

Gustave twisted his hands together and shook his head. ‘Yes, but,’ he began, his eyes seeking out Erik’s in understanding. ‘People stare. Mama tells me that they do not always mean to be cruel. It is a natural reaction to seeing something unusual, and that I should not pay any mind to anything that they say, because my face is not who I am, but...’ he trailed off. Erik just nodded.

‘Sometimes it makes me feel very sad and alone.’ He continued in a small voice, his eyes fixed on his own hands. 

Erik’s throat constricted. ‘But you have your Mama’ he said hopefully, his voice sounding strangely thick and gravelly.

Gustave looked up at Erik, an almost guilty expression crossing his face. ‘It makes Mama sad and angry too,’ he said slowly, ‘the comments and the stares. So I pretend not to see them. I don’t like her to be sad.’

A hot prickle burned behind Erik’s eyelids, and he squeezed them shut momentarily, wondering what the boy would say if he learned that _he_ was responsible for causing all of his and his Mama’s sadness. 

‘When you are here, it helps me forget.’ the boy continued. ‘And I don’t feel so alone.’

Erik swallowed convulsively. Nobody had ever said anything like that about him before. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak around the constriction that was building in it.

‘I shall always come back,’ he said softly. ‘For as long as I am able. As long as you want it.’

The boy beamed at him.

‘Now,’ began Erik, shaking off the melancholy sentiment that was threatening to engulf him. ‘Have you been practising?’

‘A little,’ Gustave answered. ‘But perhaps not as often as I should.’ The look of guilt on his face told Erik everything he needed to know. Clearly his absence had affected him more than he had ever considered might have been possible.

‘Well - no matter,’ he stated, giving him a conspiratorial look. ‘Gustave, have you ever learned the violin?’

Curiosity sparked in the boy's eyes. ‘Not properly,’ he replied. ‘There was a man who let me try his once, but not since. I do not have an instrument.’

Your Mama could not afford one, Erik supplied mentally, reading the meaning behind the boy’s thoughts. It was as he suspected.

‘Is that right?’ Erik asked,. ‘Well, if that be the case…’

He stooped, and picked up one of the boxes he had been carrying earlier - gesturing to the boy to take it.

‘What is it?’ Gustave asked curiously.

‘Open it and see.’ Erik replied, giving a slight chuckle.

The boy flicked the clasps on the wooden box, gasping in delight as he opened the lid and beheld the instrument nestled within.

‘Do you like it?’ Erik asked.

‘Is this for me?’ the boy replied, his eyes rounded in wonder.

‘If you wish. Take it out and see how it feels,’ he urged, bending again to remove his own instrument from it’s case.

He lifted his own instrument and made to demonstrate the proper way to hold it, but Gustave had already settled his beneath his own chin, his hand holding the bow in perfect balance. 

Erik raised an eyebrow, and he was hit with a sudden suspicion that this boy’s definition of ‘try’ might be slightly different to that of others.

‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘Show me what you know.’

Haltingly at first, the boy raised the bow and put it to the strings, drawing it across with an impressive technique for someone who claimed to have little experience. He played a simple, but pleasant folk melody - concentration etched across his mis-matched features as he worked. At its completion, he lowered the instrument gently and looked over at Erik expectantly, eagerness shining in his eyes.

Erik smiled broadly, delighted to learn that they could skip the awful screeching which usually came with the learning of this instrument, and move straight on to more interesting matters.

‘You are a natural,’ he stated.

Gustave smiled bashfully. ‘Mama says it runs in my blood - my father and my grandpapa both played. She said it was one of the most beautiful sounds in the world to listen to.’ 

‘Is that so?’ he replied, a wistful look crossing over the unmasked side of his face. ‘Well…’ he dug around in his case and pulled out several sheets of music, placing them on the stand. ‘Let us see how you fare with this then.’ And with that the two of them began to play, Erik guiding him along, making occasional suggestions and tweaks to technique - both of them utterly lost in the music they made.

The remained that way an hour later, when Christine gently turned the doorknob and pushed the dressing room door. At her entrance their heads both snapped up, their playing faltering and Christine was greeted by twin expressions of guilt and surprise. The effect was so comical that she had to stifle a laugh at their expense.

‘Good evening Erik,’ she said, smiling gently.

Erik’s grip on his instrument tightened. ‘Good evening.’ he replied hesitantly.

‘It appears I am interrupting’ she stated.

Quickly, Erik placed his instrument back in his case, shaking his head.

‘No, no, not at all.’ he stuttered. ‘My apologies for intruding. I was not aware of the time. I had intended to be gone before you returned. That is…’ his voice trailed off helplessly.

‘Really - it is no imposition at all,’ she replied gently. ‘I can hardly complain of being inconvenienced when I have not been here to require the room.’

He nodded, and continued to close his violin box, taking the music down from the stand.

Christine crossed over to her son and examined the instrument still clutched in his hand.

‘What’s this?’ she asked.

Gustave looked toward Erik, unsure of whether to claim it as his own, or hand it back over to his mysterious friend.

‘It is a gift.’ Erik stated simply, avoiding her eyes.

Christine turned it over in her hands, looking at it thoughtfully. 

‘That is very generous of you,’ she returned, handing the instrument back to Gustave who placed it gratefully in its box, closing the clasp and clutching it as if it were a precious talisman.

‘You both sounded wonderful.’ she added, a shy smile passing over her lips. ‘I had forgotten.’

Erik gulped and nodded.

‘I should be going.’ he returned, fidgeting slightly.

‘When will you come back?’ blurted Gustave, giving him an anxious glance.

‘Gustave…’ Christine warned. ‘Monsieur Erik is a busy man, we must not presume.’

The boy’s face fell, and Christine took a steadying breath. Perhaps now was the time to tell him…

‘Gustave, there is something I have been meaning to tell you.’

She turned and went to stand next to Erik. A look of alarm crossed over his face. 

Gustave eyed her suspiciously.

‘Monsieur Erik has asked me to perform at Phantasma. He has invited us both to live there in the hotel. Would that please you?’

Gustave gasped and clapped his hands in delight.

‘Truly Mama?’ his eyes darted between her and Erik looking for confirmation. Erik gave a bewildered nod, and once again the boy launched himself at him, this time clasping his arms around both his and Christine’s waist and drawing them together in a fierce hug.

Erik froze - Christine gave an awkward laugh and extracted herself, patting her son on the head.

‘Now - we must not keep poor Monsieur Erik from leaving any longer. I’m sure he has other places to be.’

Gustave release him and stepped back.

‘Goodbye!’ he called happily. ‘I will see you again very soon, and I promise to practise.’ He grinned happily.  
His mind still addled and fuzzy, Erik nodded and made towards the window. 

Christine let out a bright, tinkling laugh.

‘Erik?’ 

He froze mid stride.

‘Do you intend to leave by the window?’

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, gesturing somewhat helplessly. ‘It is my usual method of departure,’ he admitted.

She smiled. ‘You never were one for convention. I begin to question whether you ever learned to use a door.’

He frowned.

‘You need not clamber down the side of the building.’ She reassured him. ‘You have nothing to hide here, and I can assure you, you are not the most unusual thing roaming the backstage area of this theatre tonight. I very much doubt whether anyone would notice you.’

He made to protest, and then awkwardly nodded in acceptance.

‘Yes, I suppose you are right.’

Gustave giggled. ‘We will be leaving now too, won't we Mama?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps Monsieur Erik can come with us, so he does not get lost.’

Christine chuckled. ‘I somehow doubt Monsieur Erik could ever get lost within a theatre, my darling, but yes, if he cares to, he can join us.’ She looked at him questioningly.

‘By all means, lead on,’ he replied, adjusting his mask self consciously and following the two of them out of the dressing room door.

The trio emerged from the theatre stage door into the cool manhattan night air.

For a moment they stood awkwardly on the sidewalk, staring down the street.

‘Did you walk here?’ Erik enquired, looking at Christine. He glanced about them, feeling uneasy about them walking alone even that short distance through the city at night. 

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Our rooms are just two blocks from here.’ She named a street just a little south of their current location.

‘That is in my direction’ he responded, relief washing over him. ‘Might I see you to your door?’

Christine blinked at him in surprise, but nodded her head in acceptance, and the three of them set off down the street.

They had not gone more than several steps when Erik felt something brush against his hand and capture it. He stiffened slightly and looked down in surprise to see Gustave nestled between him and Christine, his own little hand wrapped around his, his other arm with the fiddle box swinging from it, awkwardly looped around his mother’s. Christine looked at him and gave an apologetic smile.

They continued in silence until they reached the door to Christine’s apartment and Gustave detangled himself from them both.

‘Well, this is us,’ Christine acknowledged, nodding at the doorway. 

Erik nodded. ‘Goodnight then,’ he replied.

‘Goodnight,’ she returned, opening the door and entering the stairwell. Gustave gave him a cheery wave, and the pair disappeared from view behind the door.

Erik lingered for a moment longer, examining the hand which Gustave had just dropped.

Was this how it felt to be a normal man, with a family? One that he could take walks with, like everybody else did on Sundays?

A soft sigh escaped his lips, and he pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck, and made for home, a feeling very near to contentment still coursing through his veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief fluffy interlude for you all before we return to our normal programme of angst and pining.
> 
> As usual this chapter ran away with me and turned into several chapters instead of one. However, I *think* I am about 3 or 4 chapters away from the conclusion now, and I promise this will live up to it's M rating by the end...


	12. Our strange duet

Two weeks passed quickly, and before she knew it Christine found herself standing outside of their apartment building, watching the last of their meagre belongings being loaded onto the roof of the carriage that had arrived to take them to their new life in Phantasma. After ten years on the road they were used to packing up and moving on regularly, but somehow this felt different, the closure of one chapter, and the start of something new. Except that it wasn’t entirely new and Christine couldn’t shake the strange feeling that she was somehow going  _ back,  _ although back to what she could not tell. __

She ushered Gustave into the carriage and clambered in after him - her eyes flicking to the darkened third floor window one last time as she wished it a silent farewell. Beside her Gustave bounced excitedly on the the seat, his violin case still clutched tightly in his hands - he had hardly let it leave his side since he had been given it, and he most certainly was not going to trust it to the roof of the carriage, even for the short journey out to coney island. She had not seen Erik since that day in the theatre two weeks ago, but she knew he had been there, the mounting piles of sheet music and Gustave’s contented glow told her as much. He had not lost all of his old habits, it would seem, no matter how much the external facade seemed to be softened and polished in the intervening years. He still came and went like a shadow, unseen by anyone he did not choose to be seen by.

It came as somewhat of a surprise then to find him pacing the pavement outside of the hotel as their carriage pulled up. It was still strange and somewhat jarring to see him like this, outside in the daylight, amongst other people. He looked ill at ease, glowering at anyone who dared to make even a furtive glance in his direction while he waited, his hands tapping out a complicated rhythm on his leg while he paced, but compared to the skulking, dramatic creature she had known in the past he was unrecognisable.

Erik felt a wave of relief pass over him as he saw their carriage draw up at the hotel door. Until this moment he had not quite been able to convince himself that they were going to come. Every day he had expected her to send some form of excuse or apology to say she had changed her mind. Even that morning when no such apology had come he became convinced that she would be suddenly seized with revulsion at the step she was about to make and would take the child and flee. So strong had been his conviction of this, that he had actually instructed the driver to take the Madame anywhere she instructed him should she desire it. He would not have her thinking she was being held against her will. Not this time.

It was with a shaking hand that he opened the carriage door and handed out his inhabitants. Gustave bounded out first, enthusiastic eyes wide as he craned his neck to the top floor of the hotel.

‘Are we really going to be living all the way up there Mama?’ he gasped.

His mother chuckled as she followed him out, her light hand briefly resting in Erik’s as she gathered her skirts to step down onto the street. He could still feel its touch burning him as they crossed the threshold into the foyer.

Christine took a steadying breath and tried to look more confident than she felt as they made their way over to the elevator which would take them up to the penthouse suite. If this was to be her home now she could not feel like an intruder stealing across the threshold every time she stepped foot from the building. Still, she felt somehow shabby and inadequate amongst the splendour of her surroundings.

The feeling did not diminish as they entered the suite. The rooms, already spectacular on their initial visit were now adorned with every possible comfort. Vases of flowers filled the room with a sweet fragrance. The furnishings were updated to include a new fainting couch, and a vast array of cushions, alongside bright new drapes. The bookcases were full with new titles, and a brief glance showed her some of her and gustave’s favourite tomes, as well as a surprisingly large collection of Swedish Folk Tales. Over on the piano were several stacks of music, including what appeared to be a new folio of songs for her.

That was nothing, however, compared to the piles of boxes and parcels which sat outside of each of their rooms.

She turned to Erik, her eyes wide in surprise.

‘What is all this?’ she asked.

To her astonishment, a crimson blush crept up his good cheek as he replied.

‘Oh - merely some home comforts.’ He waved his long hands dismissively. ‘Creams, perfumes, some toys for the boy, that kind of thing.’

Her mouth fell open in a surprised ‘O’.

‘I was not sure of your preferences, so I had my shopper make a selection. If there is anything not to you taste you may simply leave it boxed up and I shall have it returned.

Gustave dived for his pile, pulling an elaborate mechanical music box from the top package and whooping with delight.

She could not help releasing a gleeful laugh as his face lit up with joy, before she reminded him gently of his manners and he sheepishly paused in his exploration to express his thanks.

‘It is nothing,’ blustered Erik, his ears still tinged with pink. ‘You will also find some clothing within your wardrobe. I trust that everything should be as you need, but if you require anything more please do not hesitate to ask. I have arranged for a modiste to visit this afternoon to check this fit on your gown for this evening’s performance. I hope that is acceptable?’

She blinked again in surprise. ‘Of course.’ 

‘Very well, I shall leave you now. If you need anything you may send word with the staff - I have appointed some of the hotel attendants specifically to attend to you.’

Christine nodded mechanically, feeling completely overwhelmed. ‘You will be at the performance?’ 

‘Naturally, I would not miss it for the world.’

‘Thank you!’ she called to his back as he exited the room, suddenly aware that her gratitude had been poorly expressed. If he heard her he did not show it.

Wiping a hand over her brow and letting out a shaky breath she walked into her room and opened her closets. Each one was stuffed to the brim with a dazzling array of silk gowns, alongside exquisitely made daywear in linens, lace, velvets, wool and other fabrics. Her drawers were full of cotton shifts and chemises and delicate stockings, and there were even a range of corsets, not to mention the shoes and hats. She blushed just to think of him ordering half of these items, but it was not until she reached the final drawer and uncovered the boxes of jewels, some of which looked suspiciously  _ real  _ that the full weight of his generosity hit her, and she closed the drawer with a sudden push, sitting down hard on the bed and cradling her head in her hands, completely overcome.

What kind of madness was this? The cost of the contents of this room alone would have come near to ruining most men.

She sat in this manner for several moments more, until Gustave came running through into her room, clutching a miniature suit of eveningwear in his hands, his eyes round like saucers.

‘Look Mama’ he cried, holding it up in front of himself and executing a clumsy bow.

‘I’ve got  _ two  _ of them!’ he gushed. ‘And there’s a globe, and a set of encyclopedia, and even a  _ telescope. _ ’

She smiled at him weakly.

‘It is just like a fairytale Mama,’ he breathed, walking over to where a spectacular deep blue dress hung on the screen at the far end of the room. 

No doubt this was what Erik intended for her to wear for the performance tonight. It was spectacular - and she was only to perform one song. It seemed alost a shame to waste it. Still, there would doubtless be other opportunities to wear it on the stage in the future.

‘Look Mama!’ Gustave cried, snatching something up from the vanity table and rushing over to the bed.

He clambered up and placed a glittering tiara onto her hair, bouncing up and down with joy. 

‘You  _ are  _ princess!’

Despite her exhaustion Christine felt a bubble of laughter build up in her chest. She reached up and rescued the sparkling adornment from it’s precarious perch on top of her curls, eyeing it with wonder, before pulling her son close and peppering his head with kisses.

‘So it would seem,’ she laughed, ‘so it would seem. Now run along and put away your things before I am forced to turn into a wicked witch and place a curse on you for not behaving.’

He flashed a lopsided grin at her and scampered away into his room, leaving Christine alone again on the bed, wondering whether it was possible that all those years ago she had kissed a frog and turned him into a prince without even realising it.

***

For the last two weeks Erik had existed in a sort of tense, nervous frenzy, his head overwhelmed by music and his body seized by a maniacal need to keep moving. He had been more productive, more  _ creative  _ in these weeks that he had in the last ten years put together. He birthed the start of countless arias, and was fairly sure he was on his way to producing a full light operetta. He had fixed things that had long needed to be fixed, and several others that did not. The energy had been relentless, and he found himself unable to sleep or eat except for in small snatches when the need finally overtook him. 

Of course,  _ back then _ that would have been nothing unusual, these moods often took him, and he had taken a strange sort of pride in his almost inhuman existence then - he was neither living nor dead, and it suited him. Now he had become more used to moving within the world of the living he found it exhausting. His head pounded, his bones ached, even the hair in his scalp, what little had left of it seemed to scream in exhaustion. Still he told himself that once they were here all would be well. The relief when they had arrived that morning had been palpable, it was true, but he was certain that tonight, when she finally took to the stage,  _ his stage, _ and sung he would at last know peace.

She was only performing one song - just one song to introduce her to her new audience, and yet somehow it felt as if all the weight of the world rested on that one moment. More would come, she would have entire operas dedicated to her should she wish it, but for now his only concern was that this first night be right. 

He had avoided her run through with the maestro and musicians, wishing to save the experience and savour it in all its glory, and spent the entire first act fluttering around the theatre, entirely without purpose and yet completely unable to relax until he was sure everything was perfect and accounted for. As the moment for her debut neared his exhausted body thrummed in anticipation and he settled in to his usual box to watch.

He was not expecting it. Perhaps he ought to have been, given the emotion and longing that he had poured into writing that song. He only meant for the whole world to see her full glory, to understand, as he did, what a wonder she has. She deserved to have the world at her feet and he intended to give it to her. 

He saw her step out onto the stage, looking every bit as resplendent in the shimmering blue gown as he knew she would. Even from this distance he could see the sparkle of her eyes and he found himself leaning forward in anticipation as she whetted her lips and prepared to take her first note. The orchestra swelled and then faded and she opened her perfect mouth and began to sing.

Oh! It was everything he had ever remembered and then more. He felt the song wash over him in waves, her heavenly voice seeming to caress every inch of his skin so that he felt like his whole body was on fire. Suddenly every thought, every fantasy and every dream he had ever had of her was brought to life and there was nothing else but him and her, and those beautiful words of love and devotion.

He sank back into his seat, his eyes closed as the memories overwhelmed him, transported back to that night ten years ago when they had both declared themselves openly and without shame for a few precious hours, once more feeling her warm skin beneath his hands, the tickle of her hair against his chest and the hot panting of her breath against his neck. He remembered every inch of her in perfect detail, despite the darkness that surrounded them, and as her song began to build and soar he vividly recalled the sound of her sighs falling from those perfect lips in notes of rapture. 

Driven on by the building music and the siren pull of her song his hands began to wander, clawing a desperate track over his knees and up to the straining bulge at apex of his thighs which throbbed and ached with every note. For a moment he was utterly transported, his hands moving rhythmically until the sound of a low, guttural moan reached his ears and he realised with horror it had come from  _ him.  _

His eyes flew open, suddenly aware of where he was again and what was happening. He staggered backwards from his chair hoping fervently that nobody in the boxes opposite had witnessed his sudden and complete loss of control. He looked wildly about himself, and noted with relief that all eyes were trained with rapt attention on the stage. He prayed they were all too entranced by her beautiful sound for their ears to have detected the hideous notes of his own shame. 

As her glorious final note finally died away and the crowd took up a thunderous applause Erik found himself standing at the back of box five, his hands pressed firmly into the upholstered wall, his heart pounding and his knees weak. Mortification flooded his veins. Once again he had let the monster within him win. The thought of having sullied Christine’s triumphant debut with his own ugly desires made him feel physically sick. How on earth was he ever to face her now? This was going to be much, much more difficult than he had imagined.

On stage Christine let the audience’s applause wash over her, elation flooding her soul. For the first time in years she felt  _ alive.  _ In rehearsal the song had been beautiful, but here on the stage it had transcended beauty and become something else entirely. She had never felt more powerful, more present and more herself than she did in that moment. She found her eyes drifting right and upwards, seeking out box five and a glimpse of the mask, hoping to make eye contact with the only person she felt sure could understand how she felt in that moment, but he was nowhere to be seen. 

The curtain fell, and the other performers rushed forward to congratulate her, surrounding her in a bubble of chatter and excitement. From somewhere in the wings Gustave barrelled forward wrapping himself around her legs and bouncing in excitement.

‘You sounded like an Angel Mama!’ he cried, reaching up to hand her a single red rose.

Her chest constricted with emotion, and she stooped to drop a kiss on his wrinkled forehead.

‘Thank you, my darling,’ she said smiling, ‘and where did you find such a beautiful bloom?’

It was not until Gustave gestured to him in acknowledgement that she noticed him standing there, half hidden in the shadow of the wings, the white mask glowing slightly with the reflected light. His face looked pale and he wore a slightly pinched and uncomfortable expression, but something within the depths of his golden eyes caused her stomach to clench and her breathing to hitch.

‘Brava’ he said softly, his voice barely reaching her ears.

Flustered, she dropped him a mocking curtsey to cover confusion.

‘I hope I did not disappoint?’

‘You could never disappoint.’ he replied, unmoving from his position in the shadows.

‘Thank you for the song - it was beautiful’

He shifted his position awkwardly, a brief flicker of something like discomfort or displeasure crossing his features, but his reply, when it came, seemed smooth and emotionless

‘It is no grand opera - but this audience would not appreciate that. Not yet. For tonight, it sufficed.’

Christine felt a little taken aback. She could not help but feel he was in some way unhappy about how the night had progressed, although outwardly he expressed no disapprobation.

‘Nevertheless,’ she replied, simply, ‘it was beautiful, and you honour me with it.’

He gave a small grunt, a spasm seeming to pass through his body, his eyes flaring momentarily with emotion, before he schooled his features back into neutrality and responded with a polite bow. 

‘It is late, I shall not keep you any longer,’ he responded. ‘I bid you both welcome again to Phantasma. I hope you will be very happy here.’ Now there was an unmistakable sadness in his voice, but Christine was at a loss as to what it meant. Perhaps the reality of her singing did not match up to his expectation?

‘Thank you,’ she mumbled, the elation from her performance beginning to ebb. ‘Good Night.’

‘Good Night’. He nodded and melted away into the shadows, though for some time afterward Christine imagined she could still feel his gaze upon her.

Despite her exhaustion and the comfort of her hotel suite bed, sleep evaded her for most of that night, and when it came it was punctuated by piercing golden eyes.

***

Life at Phantasma quickly settled into a routine, and Christine found herself surprised at how well it suited her. It was impossible not to be contented. Her every whim was catered for, her fellow performers were pleasant and friendly, and the park provided all the entertainment a ten year old boy could ever require.

It perhaps should not have been surprising to her that the only perplexity in her new situation continued to be Erik. While she could never accuse him of being anything other than minutely attentive to her requirements, and everything which was polite in their interactions, the relationship between the two of them was strange to say the least. If she was pressed, she would have said that she saw little of him, although truth be told not a day went by where they did not spend time in each other’s company at various intervals throughout the day.

At rehearsal he would often give copious notes to other performers, but rarely spoke above two syllables in response to any performance of hers, often tending to avoid her run throughs altogether, although the gift of a single red rose presented in various ways after every performance suggested to her that he had never yet missed one since she started. He continued to pen achingly beautiful songs for her, and she knew that he was effusive in his praise of her performance to others, sometimes even going so far as to praise her abilities directly to patrons or other benefactors at events by way of an introduction, yet never once finding the opportunity to address such approval to herself.

He was unfailing in his attentions to Gustave, taking great pains to secure tutors for him, and to monitor his progress with them. He undertook it himself to provide music tuition, often arranging the lessons for times when Christine was otherwise occupied, so that they were never in the same room for too long. During every interaction there was a sense of rising tension and discomfort, and she often found herself entering rooms only to see him rapidly exit them only moments later. And yet, when they were together, she often felt his eyes on her, only for her to turn and find him occupied with something else. It was both perplexing and frustrating in equal measure, and as they days progressed she found that the behaviour exerted a strange sort of pull on her, until she became so acutely aware of his presence that at any given time you could have asked her where he was and what he was doing, and somehow, without really knowing how or why, she would have been able to tell you in perfect detail, recounting in full conversations she had not been involved in, and ideas he had not expressed to her. It was as if he exerted a kind of gravitational pull which kept her consciousness trapped within his orbit.

The only time they spent any significant time in the same space with any ease were the evenings after her performances, when Erik would take Gustave home following a performance to read or play together, while Christine met with and greeted her audience. She rarely bothered to change in her dressing room in the concert hall, unless she was required to meet with a patron, or entertain guests after the performance. Instead, as the hotel was so close she preferred to return home to it’s comforts after a performance - partly because the pull of her own nightgown, wrapper and slippers was too tempting, and partly because she had grown deeply fond of the domestic scene which unfolded in the room next door as she prepared. On these occasions she was permitted a rare glimpse of him as he interacted with the boy, and could listen to their conversations, his stories and opinions, her presence acknowledged but unseen, and therefore not a hindrance. 

On one such evening, just over a month into her run, Christine sat at her dressing table, her body pleasantly weary from the night’s performance, and removed the glittering pins from her hair. From the room without the gentle strains of piano floated through, punctuated by Gustave’s happy giggle and the occasional soft murmur of Erik’s voice as he gently corrected the boy on his fingering or phrasing. A feeling of warmth and nostalgia washed over her as she heard the unmistakable notes of pride in his tone when the boy managed to complete a piece  _ just so,  _ and she remembered how that voice had once lavished  _ her  _ with praise and adoration when she sang.

Eventually the strains died away, and she smiled as she pictured them as she knew they now would be, Erik seated in one of the easy chairs, with Gustave settled at his knee, his face enraptured with whatever little story or piece of information Erik cared to share with him that evening. In such a short time these little routines had become so precious to her.

She stood, unhooking the fastenings of her bodice and loosened her skirts revelling in the whisper of silk and starched petticoats as her stage gown pooled about her feet. She has no real grasp of how financially successful the park was, but from the regularly packed houses and the seemingly unending supply of elaborate and expensive gowns which Erik insisted on providing her to perform in she suspected that business was rather good. She slipped on her dressing gown and lace wrapper, and was just about to settle herself into her usual chair near the door to continue to listen when the sound of angelic singing stopped the breath in her throat and caused her heart to lurch erratically.

Oh! That voice! She had forgotten how heavenly he sounded. For a moment she was transported back to the mirror in her dressing room in Paris while her strange angel sang away her loneliness and sorrow. Softly, as if pulled by some unseen force she crossed to the doorway to watch unseen, her pulse bounding in her throat. 

Gustave sat in his usual spot, his head resting against the arm of the chair, his eyes closed and mouth slack in sleep while Erik sang a soft, lilting lullaby in his angel’s voice. She was not prepared for the expression of love and tenderness in his gaze. Her insides clenched painfully, and a strange, gnawing feeling grew within her breast. She had not realised how much she had missed his companionship. She missed the feeling of elation and accomplishment which followed his lessons, the passion and intensity which he poured into his teaching, and the pride and adoration which were always evident in his compliments. She missed his understanding and sympathetic ear, and his unfailing ability to soothe her when she was at her lowest. Same and mortification rose within her and she realised that she was jealous of her own son for the time which he got to spend with him. Precious moments of peace which it seemed were now lost to her forever.

With a clarity swift and sharp as lightening Christine was struck with the knowledge of that which she had so long denied to be true. She loved him still. Despite all her efforts and reservations she could not help it - something deep inside of her cleaved to him, and always would. 

The resulting sigh which escaped from her caused Erik’s head to snap up, his song dying softly on his lips.

‘It is only me,’ she called gently, stepping forward from the doorway and smiling warmly at them both.

Erik’s hand gently stroked the sleeping boy’s head, and her heart squeezed at the sight of it. Her little family - she wished she could bottle this moment forever.

‘I should put him to bed,’ she offered, keeping her voice low to avoid waking the sleeping child.

‘I’ll do it.’ Erik replied, stooping and lifting him easily. He cradled the boy in his arms and walked gracefully towards the bedroom, hardly jostling him at all with his smooth, long limbed stride. Even his walk was musical, she thought - every movement imbued with a purpose, rhythm and sensuality which was uniquely his. Something in Christine’s lower belly quickened at the sight, and her face flamed red. These were  _ not  _ the kind of thoughts the sight of a man carrying your sleeping child should inspire. 

She was still flustered on his return.

‘He is sleeping,’ he stated simply, crossing over to the chair and collecting his coat ready to leave.

‘Can I offer you a drink?’

He stiffened. This was not part of the normal routine. His heart screamed at him to stay and he faltered momentarily, but then steeled his resolve. She was probably just being polite, and she was standing there wearing very little but a dressing gown. No, for all of their sakes he needed to leave  _ now. _

‘I thank you, but no,’ he replied, his voice sounding slightly rough and tense. ‘You should rest - you don’t want to spoil your voice for tomorrow’s show.’

He picked up his coat, wrapping it tightly about himself as if the extra layer might protect him from temptation, and took a hurried step toward the door.

Disappointment washed over Christine like a cold wave. Always the show, always her voice… A strange sense of panic and urgency seized her and she found herself calling his name, pleading for him to wait, her voice sounding slightly shrill and desperate. 

He stopped suddenly and spun to face her, surprise clouding his expression.

‘I...’ she faltered, she didn’t know what she wanted to say. Stay? Look at me? See me?

‘Yes?’ he asked, his voice sounding clipped, almost impatient. His eyes glittered dangerously.

‘About the show…’

His visible eyebrow quirked.

‘I am having a little difficulty with some of the new pieces you sent me, and I was wondering, would you be willing to resume our lessons?’ She wrung her hands. Oh! That was not exactly what she wanted to say at all, but it was at least a start.

Erik frowned. ‘You want  _ me  _ to teach you again?’ he asked incredulously. 

‘Yes, please,’ she said softly. ‘You always helped before - and I thought…’ 

A shudder passed through Erik’s body. It was enough, almost too much, to hear her sing on stage and bask in her glory from afar, but to be with her and guide her voice again? Could he do that? Should he do that? His inner monster roared with joy - yes! God, it was almost everything he had ever wanted - to be able to go back to how things were before when there was nothing but the two of them and the music, weaving together in harmony. Try as he might, he could not deny himself that one pleasure.

It was just lessons - she did not need to know. Surely had enough mastery of himself not to ruin this? He had heard her sing several times since that first night now - he knew what to expect. Surely  _ that  _ could not happen again, it was just the initial shock of it and the memories that it evoked that had caused him to forget himself. He could control himself. If his Christine needed him then he would control himself. He forced himself to sound detached and disinterested in his reply.

‘If you think it will help? For the good of the show, naturally.’

A sickening sensation settled in Christine’s stomach.

‘Yes,’ she replied dejectedly, ‘For the good of the show.’

He nodded, and she watched the back of his head as he left the room with an abrupt stride.

After all these years and with everything she had seen and done it appeared she had learned nothing. She was right back where she was when she started, except unlike last time she had absolutely no confidence in him reciprocating. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I'm sorry. Apparently I just can't help myself...
> 
> Thanks for all the lovely reviews and comments so far. It's lovely to hear that you're all enjoying where I've taken this so far.
> 
> I anticipate there being three more chapters in this before the end of this leg of the story ( but I do plan more oneshots in this universe) - also, just one more chapter until this fully earns it's M rating, so, well if you don't like that kind of thing, you've been warned (although what are you doing reading an M rated fic if you're not here for the smut??)


	13. The point of no return

Three months - for exactly three months now Christine had been a regular feature at Phantasma. They had been the most beautiful, and most painful months of Erik’s existence. If he thought at the time that constant haunting of her memory was a torture, that paled into insignificance to the reality of having her so close, and yet the necessity of having to keep himself distant. He had begun to lose count of the number of times he had practically fled from rooms to keep himself from being overwhelmed by the desire to touch her, to grab her and crush her to him and never let her go again.

The worst of it was these damnable lessons. He wasn’t sure why she insisted on having them. She could sing the pieces perfectly, yet he still forced her to go over and over passages like a ridiculous masochist, the honeyed words flowing forth on her angelic voice each like a fresh dagger to the heart.

Why on earth did he insist on writing these ridiculous songs for her to sing? He could compose anything for her - perhaps a little ditty about woods and mountains, or a ballad from a mother to its child? They would be equally beautiful and affecting when flowing from her glorious throat - but no, he had to keep penning professions of passion and undying love that turned into torturing mockeries when parroted back at him by that heavenly instrument. It was as if he couldn’t resist taunting himself with which he could not have… 

It wasn’t enough for his mind to betray him and insist on continuing to spout useless professions of his undying devotion for her to declare to all the world but him, of course his ridiculous, revolting body had to continue to betray him too. It was not enough that he looked like a cadaver already - oh no! Now he had to  _ actually _ start to fall apart. His shoulders hurt from holding himself taught in her presence, his knees still from his new habitual locked legged stance. His hands ached with incessant piano playing, and the calluses on his writing hand were scabbed and raw from so many hours of gripping a quill. His jaw ached, and there was a pounding in his head, doubtless from all the jaw clenching and teeth grinding he had been doing. And of course there was  _ down there _ . Caught in his own trap, bourne of his own wicked music her voice inspired an incessant, aching throb - the protection his great coat now an absolute necessity even in the warmest of rooms. It was worse than being a pimpled youth again, a constant, obvious, consuming desire that even the most frequent ministrations of his own revolting hands could not slake. The overall effect was one of his entire body being on fire, and like the stupid moth that he was, he could not help circling ever closer to his source of ignition.

If it hadn’t already been a certainty, he was now most definitely going to hell. In fact, he was almost sure he was already there. 

For Christine the lessons were both the highlight, and the low point of her week. Erik was as exacting and firm a teacher as he had ever been, and although she had instigated them on a ridiculous whim, it was not long before she felt their benefit. Though her voice was still as strong and clear as it had been they day the parted, she had allowed herself to fall into lazy habits, and restored to his position of maestro he had swooped upon them, warning her in that hypnotic tone of his of the future harms she could be causing herself if she continued to neglect her technique.

Under his expert guidance her voice soared again to new heights - she rediscovered notes which she had long thought lost to her through age, and between them they uncovered new depths in her chest voice, producing a new, dark and sensual sound she had never before been capable of. Their sessions left her feeling alive and invigorated in a way which only performing on stage surpassed, and yet for every moment her heart felt set free to the music, there was another moment of crushing reality that brought her back down to the ground with a resounding thud.

It was not that he was intentionally cruel, in fact he remained unfailingly kind and solicitous of her comfort and wellbeing, but as the lessons progressed he became increasingly distant and tense with her. Where once she was directed by a ghosting finger on her chin, or a feather light touch upon her spine, there now came clipped commands, hisses of frustration and balled fists. If she had thought that instigating lessons would be a way for her to reach him and win him back, it seemed she had been wrong. Every hour they spent together seemed to propel him further and further away from her, until now she could practically feel the tension in his body when he entered the room and see the ways his eyes flicked to the door as if he was looking for a means of escape at the earliest possible moment. 

Of course, it was made worse by his confounding music. She had always known of its power and intensity. He was correct when he had said his Don Juan  _ burned _ , but she found his new music, though less frightening in its outward appearance, was just as dangerous below the surface. Where once he had made her sing of forbidden and dangerous passions, now he coaxed such sweet sounds of love and devotion from her that she felt herself burning up from within. It was both agony and bliss to see them and repeat them to him. But while the audiences responded with raptures, and he continued to produce more and more to feed their frenzy, the composer himself appeared as unmoved and unmalleable as stone. 

She could not help herself from hoping everytime a new piece of music was sent to her. In each one the sense of longing and devotion seemed to intensify, and Christine found herself transported, riding on waves of bliss which sent an electricity surging through her veins and a heat pulsing at her core. On occasion she thought she would catch something in the way he glanced at her, or the way he would frequently appear at places where she was due to be without any warning or announcement and a spark would light in her stomach, only to be extinguished again just as suddenly by that hardening of his gaze or tensing of his shoulders, the grimace on his face or the way in which he flinched away from her proximity as if her very presence somehow pained and offended him.

She stood at the side of the piano, watching his long, slim fingers nimbly stroking the keys, his body briefly relaxed and swaying slightly to the rhythm. It was only in moments such as these, when the music flowed through them both that for a moment she could allow herself to pretend that the same tender, gentle, intelligent man who spent his evenings with their son was also here with her too, and that maybe, just maybe if she sang the right song and sang it just right, she could bring him back to her.

She forced herself to focus on the text of the aria in front of her, trying to absorb and feel every word of it. Erik might have taught her most of what she knew about the technicalities of singing, but the feeling and emotion of it were still all hers, and she would make sure he knew it. If he would not look at her of his own will, then she would turn his music into a weapon and wield it against him. If he wanted her to sing of love and longing and blissful reunions, they by god,  _ she would. _

She took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders back, lifting through her spine and relaxing her throat, planted her feet a hips width apart, making sure her knees were soft and her abdomen engaged, and then, she  _ sang _ . She poured every inch of feeling into her song. She had always sung for Erik (or at least, for her Angel, but really, that was the same thing, wasn’t it?), even when she thought he was gone, but now she was singing for herself, and it felt  _ good.  _

Erik felt the change reverberate through his body. His fingers continued to follow the melody almost mechanically, while the rest of him was drawn irresistibly toward her as if he was caught in a net that was reeling him in. He felt his eyes drawn irresistibly toward her lips his own face tilting upwards and his breath starting to come in shallow pants. He felt the familiar thickening and straining in his trouser front - a strangled moan almost made its way from his lips, when he suddenly recollected where he was. Oh God! He was doing it again! She was so close! How on earth did she get that close? He could practically feel the heat of her skin and smell the scent of her shampoo. His fingers fumbled momentarily on the keys and he propelled himself sideways along the piano bench, his muscles tense and his eyes wide with panic. 

The movement shocked Christine out of her trance, rejection stinging her like a whip. For a moment it had felt as if she had finally broken through, and she saw him yielding and responding, and then just as suddenly he was gone - flinging himself away from her and staring at her in cold revulsion. Anger and pain flared inside her - what on earth was she  _ doing?  _

‘Enough!’ she cried, banging her fists on the keyboard so that it let out a discordant, tortured wail. 

Every nerve in Erik’s body thrummed, and he froze, cowering like a cornered animal. He knew it would happen eventually - and now, it seemed, he’d finally done it.

‘Impossible, impossible man!’ she hissed, turning to face him, her eyes blazing.

Erik’s shoulders sagged and he prepared himself for the inevitable. 

‘I am  _ tired _ of this Erik’ she said, sadly, ‘so very tired.’

He nodded. It was understandable of course. He did not expect her to enjoy his company as he did hers. He was trying, oh, so hard to be restrained and proper, but his constant, miserable presence must of course be a drain. He knew he should restrict their interactions to a purely business basis, and try not to impose on her so often, but the draw to be with her was so strong that he found himself making little excuses to be near her whenever he could - checking on the boy’s progress, introducing her to investors, providing her with new pieces to sing, or even just ‘fixing’ something in the park near where he happened to know she would be. He had deceived himself that they were all innocent, all essential, but he had always known that his constant looming presence would be repressive and repulsive to her in the end. He sighed.

‘What is it that you want, Erik?’ Christine asked softly.

He looked at her, confusion writ large across his face. She did not want to know what he wanted. She was best not knowing.

She sighed sadly and stepped towards him.

‘I am sorry Erik. You have been very, very kind to us. Sometimes I think too kind,’ she raised a hand to halt his protests. ‘But I can see you are not happy. You are distant and cold. You cannot be in my company more than five minutes without wishing to leave again.’ Her voice gave a little hitch

Erik’s jaw dropped.

‘We do not have to continue the lessons if you would prefer not. Of course, I understand that you want to continue to see your son,’ she continued the words coming now as a rush. ‘But if you would prefer that I was elsewhere when you visit, it can be arranged.’

The muscles in Erik’s jaw worked furiously as he struggled to process what she was saying. She thought  _ he  _ wished to be relieved of her presence. How on earth had he managed to get this so wrong.

She laid a comforting hand on his arm, and the sense of longing her familiarness and proximity created hit him so strongly he thought that he might faint.

‘Erik,’ she said sadly. ‘I am sure that this is not a situation that either of us would choose to be in, but we have a son. We must talk about this, for his sake. Whatever happens between us, we cannot deprive him of a father so soon after him finding one. You are his Angel of Music and he adores you. We cannot take that away from him - please.’

Shock finally forced words to Erik’s lips, and he let out a half strangled sounding splutter, horror and panic written across every visible feature of his face.

‘Christine, I…’ he stuttered. ‘You cannot think…’ his chest heaved. He looked at her pleadingly, his hand ghosting towards her face and then dropping again suddenly. ‘I am not worthy. I cannot… I should not...’ his hand gestured hopelessly about him. ‘I am a monster. A  _ monster.  _ No one could ever truly wish to be in my company, let alone to…’ he faltered, ‘Especially not one such as you.’ 

Surprise and dawning comprehension flitted across her face, her lips momentarily forming a surprised ‘O’, her brow furrowing and clouding.  A strange, exhilarating, swooping feeling started to build in her stomach. It couldn’t possibly be, could it? Had she completely misunderstood what he had been telling her all along?

‘Erik - what are exactly you trying to tell me? Are you saying you’re  _ not  _ avoiding me?’

‘No!’ he spluttered. ‘I mean, yes, I am, but not because I want to. It is only because... Oh Christine! Can’t you see? It’s because I don’t want to keep away that I have to! I don’t seem to be able to help myself when I am around you. I can’t let myself go there again. I won't!’

‘Are you telling me that you still have feelings for me?’ she asked, fighting to keep the tremor from her voice.

The sadness in his eyes as he replied told her all she needed to know. ‘Oh Chris _ tine,’  _ he breathed, ‘I could no more stop loving you than I could stop the breath in my lungs. Though my exterior may look like death itself, my feelings for you are eternal.’

‘But you told me that wasn’t love! You said it was a madness! You said you were  _ glad  _ you thought I was dead because otherwise you’d have continued to be mad for all time!’ Her voice rose to an almost hysterical pitch, the words coming out in a forced staccato. ‘You told me you had used the years to get over me! To move on!’

He gaped, his mouth opening and closing, his eyes rolling wildly, seemingly unable to articulate a single word.

‘Oh good lord!’ she cried, ‘I am so utterly, utterly foolish!’ the laugh that escaped her sounded almost deranged. ‘

He loved her. He was trying to hide from her  _ because  _ he loved her.  _ Of course  _ he was trying to hide from her because he loved her. That was just so  _ him _ \- what else would he do? Apparently there existed no medium for him between love and disaster. Did he really think that the only possible outcome for this was what? Kidnap? Coercion? Did he really not see that there was a happier alternative? Of all the men in the world, he was the most foolish, ridiculous… She did not know whether she wanted to slap him or hug him.

‘You love me.’ She breathed out the phrase - a statement, not a question, letting it linger on her lips as if she was testing how it might taste.

He nodded meekly, a heavy cloak of despair settling onto his shoulders. This was not how he wanted to tell her. He didn’t want to tell her  _ at all. _ All he wanted was to keep her near and see her happy, but he hadn’t even been able to manage that. And now she knew and it was all ruined. He was going to lose her again.

‘Then why did you not think to tell me?’ She rounded on him, her voice thick with anger and frustration.

‘You are doing it again!’ she hissed, poking him hard in the chest. ‘Making choices for me. Deciding what I want. Deciding what I  _ think _ . You have always done this. For goodness sake, STOP!’ She threw up her arms in despair.

‘You are no more a monster than I am an angel, Erik. You must stop this ridiculous idolatry. I am a woman, with a woman's wants and needs, no more and no less. I am not some fragile, virtuous creature to be placed on a pedestal and admired from afar, and I am not some silly little girl who needs fathering and protecting any more - I never really was! I knew what I wanted ten years ago, and I have lived in the world enough for these last ten years to know what I want now.’

Erik looked at her in confusion. He could not fathom what she was trying to say, but there was a tone of defiance and challenge in her voice.

‘You say I am not a monster, but I am,  _ I am.  _ When it comes to you I am selfish and greedy and I cannot stop myself from wanting more, no matter how much I tell myself it is wrong. I have done such terrible, terrible things for the love of you, and I dread what might happen if I should forget myself again. What I might do to you, to our son, and to any misfortunate soul who happens to stumble into my path.’ 

The sadness and fear in his voice made her heart squeeze painfully. She reached forward to touch his cheek and unable to help himself he leaned into her hand, hot salty tears wetting her palm.

‘Oh Erik,’ she breathed, ‘You are not the same man you were then. Look at all this! Look at what you have done since. Look at what you did then! You stopped. You loved me, and you let me go. Is that the work of a monster?’

‘Oh yes,’ he returned bitterly, taking her hand from his cheek and pressing it between his own. ‘I let you go. Not from any goodness of my own, but because  _ you  _ showed me what true kindness was. And then how did I repay that? When you returned to me on that night did I turn you away as I ought to have? Send you back to your Vicomte and your chateau, and your long, happy and prosperous life? 

No - like the weak willed monster I am, you offered yourself to me and I took you - in my greed I took, and I took and I took, and then when I had done I ran and I left you to the consequences. And what did that bring you? Ten years of wandering, your glorious voice confined to seedy musical halls, trapped with a cursed child as a reminder of the monster who abandoned you. Hideous, hideous.’ His voice broke off with a sob.

Christine tensed. How could he, of all people, talk about their son in that way? Surely he understood that Gustave’s worth was more than his face? She swallowed convulsively, bile rising up in her throat.

‘Oh, my son,’ he sobbed, his voice barely a whisper. ‘What have I done? How can I face him knowing that his way in the world will always be barred because of me? Christine - what kind of father could I ever be? My poor, beautiful, kind Christine - what can I possibly give you that could make up for everything I have been, everything I am _? _

I am poison Christine - everything I touch I pollute and corrupt. Even if my intention is good, it seems I cannot help myself. I only wanted to help - I wanted you both to be safe and comfortable. I never meant to intrude or impose - but I cannot help myself. I have ruined it all again with my selfishness and my greed. I am so, so sorry Christine. I should have stayed dead - it would have been better for us both that way.’

Any anger Christine felt melted away. Even now with his empire around him he was still the same poor, broken lonely angel she had tried to save all those years ago in Paris.

'Oh Erik,’ she breathed. ‘Enough - this must stop. We cannot keep hurting each other this way.’

She stepped forward, forcing him to look her in the eye. The quivering gaze which met hers cemented her resolve. He was expecting her to run. She could see him steeling himself for the rejection - she had to end this now.

‘You really do not know, do you?’ she said, her voice a strange mixture of frustration, sadness and longing

His eyes narrowed in confusion, entirely unsure of the direction the conversation had suddenly taken.

‘After all this time. After everything I’ve said and done, you still do not know. You’ve never known, have you?’ she continued. ‘Of course not - if you had known, then we would never have ended up in the ridiculous mess we are in now. Poor Erik,’ a strange smile drifted over her face. ‘So brilliant, and clever and talented - I doubt there’s much you couldn’t learn and understand - but this has always evaded you, hasn’t it?’

He shook his head, unable to interpret the strange, determined gleam that had appeared in her eye.

‘Well, they do say that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, and expecting a different result.’ she mused. ‘However, they also say that the third time's the charm, so…’ and with that she stepped forward, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling him up into a firm and lingering kiss. 

The sensation of her mouth on his own mangled face sent an electric shock of desire through Erik’s body. He made a pathetic whimpering noise at the back of his throat, and his hands flailed helplessly at his sides as if he were trying to prevent himself from drowning.

She broke the kiss and stepped back, their breathing both coming wildly

‘I love you, you maddening, brilliant, impossible man.’ she said fiercely. ‘I loved you ten years ago when you left me alone, and I have loved you every day since, though goodness knows I have tried not to. Heaven help me, I think I may even have loved you when you were lurking behind mirrors, frightening people and trying to lock me away…’

He froze stock still, staring at her with a pained, wondering expression on his face. She smiled back at him, and a strange half barking, half squeaking noise escaped from his throat. He felt his legs buckle beneath and he sank to his knees in front of her - his hands clutching wildly at the folds of her skirt, his breath coming in slow, rasping gasps.

‘Erik?’ Christine dropped to her knees beside him, taking his face in her hands and forcing him to focus on her, concern etched across her features. ‘Erik - are you well? Do you need help?’

‘I am well, I am well,’ he gasped, taking her hand and squeezing it tightly. 

For a moment there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, his a ragged and uneven counterpoint to her own, shallow but steady. He continued to wring her hand, his eyes roving across her face, wide and wondering while she watched him cautiously.

Finding his voice at last, he whispered. ‘I am scared, Christine…’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to give any prizes to anyone who guesses what is coming next. 
> 
> And I'm not sorry for the cliffhanger either...


	14. No backward glances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - here be smut. If you don't want to see it, look away now, because this chapter is distinctly lacking in plot...

He hadn’t realised it was possible to feel both overwhelming joy and abject, crippling fear all at one time until that moment. Truth be told, neither were emotions he had a great range of experience in. His tastes of joy had been few and far between, and fear had rarely ever been a factor, because he had never really had anything in his life that had been worth worrying over the loss of. And now, with those three simple words she had both given him everything that he had ever dreamed of, and shown him the depth of pain he would know if he lost it. He had once thought himself immune to suffering - hardened to it over years of experience. Whips and lashes may wound him bodily, but what was physical suffering really other than a focussed point of sensation in an otherwise dull and monotonous existence. If he was honest, he’d welcomed it as a method of feeling something at least - a moment to feel that he was still alive. The prospect of death, while occasionally frustrating and inconvenient, was not something to fear - there were times when he would have welcomed it as a blessed release. 

But now, Oh! With those simple words and her honest, open look she had cut him open and wounded him mortally. She offered him bliss and completion, all he had to do was reach out and take it. So why did his hands tremble and resist so?

Christine knelt opposite him, taking in his trembling form, and the wild pleading eyes, and waited. She rubbed a reassuring thumb over his knuckles, willing him to go on. 

‘I don’t know how…’ he broke off, unsure of exactly what he was trying to say.

‘How to what?’ she probed gently, her gaze never once leaving his.

‘I don’t know how to love - how to be loved.’

That was true wasn’t it? Certainly he knew how to obsess, to jealously covet and to stifle and control, but not how to give himself wholeheartedly to someone, not really. Certainly nobody had ever loved him before, certainly not his mother - and anyone else who might have tried, the Daroga for instance, or Christine herself, he had pushed them away as soon as they got near.

Christine looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, before replying. 

‘I don’t think anybody does at the start,’ she said truthfully. ‘We all make it up as we go along, and hope for the best. We will learn together.’

‘Last time…’ he blinked and swallowed. ‘What if I ruin it all again?’

And there was the crux of it. Last time he had tried to make it up as he went along it had all gotten horribly, horribly out of control. Could he really trust himself not to do the same thing again?

Christine nodded, and then thought for a moment, before standing up.

‘Wait,’ she told him firmly, holding out a hand to him as if he was a dog. He obeyed without question, and she crossed the room to the door, slipping outside.

Erik remained frozen on the floor, his wide eyes trained on the doorway. He could hear her voice talking softly to someone without - then footsteps hastily walking away. He steeled himself. The latch turned, and she re-entered, closing the door and, despite his wonder he could not help noting, locking it securely behind her. 

The look of relief on his face at her reappearance made her heart lurch. She held her hands out to him, inviting him up off the floor and back onto the piano stool beside her.

‘Erik - you are capable of terrible, terrible, things, you and I both know this. But I know you are also capable of such tenderness and care. You have the ability to create such beauty. This place, your music, the way you are with Gustave, they are all testament to that. 

You believe that you have cursed our son - I disagree. Whatever came after, when I recall that night I remember a man who loved me thoroughly and passionately, in a way that I never knew was possible. Our son was conceived in love Erik - do you remember it? That is a gift, and a child that has that gift will never truly be left wanting. Trust in yourself, be that man again, and it will be enough.’

As if he could forget that night, he thought. It had, until now, been the happiest moment of his entire life, and he burned with shame to think of the number of times he had replayed it to himself in his private moments. It had been these exact same doubts that had caused him to flee last time, believing he had no choice but to tear himself away before he condemned her to a life of misery and regret. He had had no idea what it was he was leaving her to at the time. 

‘I am sorry I left you.’ he whispered. ‘I was a coward. I never thought…’

‘No matter. It is in the past now, and we cannot look back. Just promise me, that if you ever get that urge again, you will do all you can to resist it. It cannot be like it was last time, Erik, I do not think I could survive it again.’

He nodded slowly, his eyes widening with shame. 

‘I understand,’ he stammered. ‘I will try very hard, not to, to…’ he trailed off, unsure of how to 

phrase it. ‘I will try to do better.’

She smiled and nestled into his shoulder, the top of her curly brown hair tickling his chin.

‘Just talk to me. Promise me that this time, if you are worried about anything at all, or if you think you might be in danger, of, well... Just tell me, and we will face it, whatever it is, together.’

He breathed deeply.  _ Together.  _ That was a word he never thought he would hear from her - yet it sounded so natural and joyful coming from her lips that he could not help an uncertain smile drifting across his face. He wanted to bottle this moment and keep it forever. The warmth from her skin seemed to radiate in waves across his body, every millimeter of him that touched her seemed to be on fire with the sensation and he wanted nothing more than to let it consume him completely, to lean into her embrace and let himself burn up for all eternity. It did not take long for him to realise that that could never be. He did not mean to - he was not even thinking particularly lewd thoughts, but the closeness of her body, and the warmth of her and the smell of her soap and the softness of her hair were all too much - he was not used to being this close to anyone really. Certainly not in the last ten years since they had… He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the images that suddenly came flooding to him, but it was too late. He could feel the stirring and tightening in his trousers already.

Slowly he disentangled himself and slid to the far end of the piano bench, breathing deeply, his posture stiff and awkward.

‘Erik?’ Christine asked, her voice laced with confusion.

‘I am so, so sorry. I will try to control myself, I promise. I  _ do  _ try, it’s just sometimes I cannot…’ he pulled his coat awkwardly around his lap to hide himself and Christine suddenly took an intake of breath.

Surely he didn’t think  _ that  _ was the part she was referring to when she told him that history must not repeat itself.

Erik, you promised that we would be honest with each other - that we would talk, yes?

‘Yes,’ he whispered in a small voice.

'Then tell me, what exactly is it that you think I want you to control.’

‘Chris _ tine,’  _ he pleaded. ‘ _ Please.’ _

She reached out and touched his chin, turning his face towards hers and fixing him with a determined gaze.

‘Tell me. I need to be sure you understand.’

‘I  _ want  _ you.’ he almost whined, ashamed and how small and needy his voice sounded in his own ears. ‘I want all of you. I may look like a corpse, but I have all the urges of any other man. I cannot help myself. I imagine myself doing all sorts of things to you,  _ with  _ you.’

Something inside Christine quickened and she felt the heat begin to rise between her legs. She squirmed slightly in her seat. 

‘I see,’ she said, licking her lips. ‘And when you imagine this, do you imagine me reciprocating in these...  _ things _ ?’

He looked at his own lap guiltily and nodded. ‘Yes.’ He whispered in a small voice, the word coming out half sob. ‘I am so sorry, I should not. I do not mean to sully you with my thoughts. It is unnatural and wrong.’

‘Oh Erik,’ she breathed, shaking her head. Ridiculous man, would he ever not think the worst of himself? It was only her growing desire, and the certainty that if she did so he would immediately retreat into himself and then the night would be over before it had begun, that prevented her from laughing outright in his face at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Only he could have heard her plea for him not to abandon her, and interpreted it as a demand for abstinence. He had often called her his Angel in the past, but now it seemed he had mistaken her for a nun.

‘Erik - you are aware that women also have these desires and urges, are you not?’

He spluttered, ‘Of course, I… I might not be an experienced man Christine, I know of these things in  _ theory, _ but...’ his eyes dropped to his hands and remained fixed there, wide with fear. ‘I do not expect you to feel those things for  _ me,  _ Christine. I understand - I will do whatever it takes to keep you happy. Please do not punish your Erik for his lack of control. He will try. I will try, I promise.’

‘Erik.’ she said sternly, her voice dropping and becoming husky. ‘Listen to me’

His eyes snapped up to hers and something within the gaze made his cock throb painfully. He let out a pathetic whimper in response.

She slid towards him on the bench closing the space between them and grasping his hands in hers. 

‘Have you understood nothing I have said so far tonight? I feel them _. I want them _ ’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘No. You are kind, you are always so kind, but you cannot. You cannot.’ He gestured to himself with his captured hands ‘Nobody wants  _ this _ ’

Christine let out a frustrated cry, gripping his hands so tightly that he flinched. If he would not listen to reason, she would have to try showing him.

‘Christ, Erik, you have no idea do you?’ 

He blinked stupidly.

I love you, Erik. I  _ love  _ you. Have you any idea what you do to me? I want  _ all  _ of you.Your heart, your soul, your body.’ She pressed herself up against his side, hooking one leg over his lap so that it pressed against the evidence of his excitement for emphasis.

_ ‘Christine.’  _ He whispered, his eyes flickering between confusion and desire, his breath coming rapid and shallow.

Slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on his and willing him not to startle she took his hands in hers, placing one of them firmly on her chest over the point where her heart beat wildly underneath. She stared at him, her eyes pleading for him to understand.

The convulsive bob of his Adam’s apple and the tongue which darted out to moisten his slightly parted lips told her all she needed to know. 

Slowly, she lifted her other hand to cradle his face. Her fingers ghosted at the edges of his mask, keen to remove any barrier which stood between them, and for a moment he froze, his eyes wide and questioning.

She pressed her mouth to the side of his jaw, running little kisses up to his ear.

‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘do not hide from me. Not any more.’

Swallowing thickly he nodded, and she gently removed the porcelain mask, laying it aside on top of the piano, before sliding herself fully into his lap and pressing her lips to the opposite side of his face, kissing the edge of his ruined lips, his jaw, the sunken hollow of his eye socket and the furrowed ridges in between. She did not stop until her lips had claimed every inch of his face, and his trembling eased. She left his wig - she would not push him too far yet.

‘Christine,’ he whispered - her name sounding half plea, half prayer.

She leaned back and looked at him. Taking in his full visage for only the second time since they were reunited. What once seemed terrifying and strange now seemed so familiar and dear to her, and she felt herself overcome with emotion as she looked into the eyes of this man, the father of her child.

‘Hello my Angel’ she breathed, ‘I have missed you.’

His eyes widened, she sensed a protest building on his lips and she captured them again with her own kissing it away fervently until they were forced to break apart gulping for air.

‘Christine,’ he gasped, ‘ tell me you mean it. Please, tell me. Promise me this isn’t a dream.’ His hands fluttered at her sides, ghosting over her hips, fingers convulsively clenching and unclenching in the air around her, uncertain of what action to take next.

Her hand cradled the ruined side of his face, thumb tracing over the bloated corners of his lips. ‘This is very real, Erik’ she said softly, licking her lips in anticipation, ‘I love you, I want you, and I am not going anywhere any more.’ Keeping her eyes fixed on his with a steely expression she shifted slightly, rocking her hips up against his seeking that friction that she so desperately craved, and that he was so determined to deny himself. 

For a moment he remained frozen and motionless, his palms hovering in mid air, fingers outstretched, then suddenly, he surged forward, a strangled sound, half moan, half growl building in the back of his throat. His lips captured her in a rough, bruising kiss, his hands snaking upwards and winding themselves trembling into her hair and pressing her close to him until she felt like she would faint from the combination of his passion and lack of air. She twisted slightly in his grasp, angling her face so that draw quick sharp gasps of air, but his mouth did not cease it’s ministrations, instead taking the opportunity to wander downwards, teeth nipping at the edge of her jaw, his tongue questing until it settled on the pulse point in her neck and suckled there. 

She tipped back her head, moaning softly in pleasure and the sound seemed to ignite new fires of urgency in him, driving him forward again with a wild groan. His hands suddenly flew from her hair and gripped at her hips, pulling her into him with a frantic need. Before she knew what had happened he had lifted her, turning them both in a fluid movement and pushing her roughly onto the smooth body of the piano. The instrument let out a dissonant chord of protest as their thighs crashed against the keys and he ground himself against her, fisting his hands in her skirts and resuming his assault on her mouth with increased intensity.

Something inside Christine purred and preened with satisfaction. This was what she craved and what she remembered, this barely controlled passion and unrestrained fierceness. To know that he was moved to such trembling intensity by her and her alone stoked the fire within her, causing a molten heat to pool in her belly and a sticky wetness to build between her legs. She moved herself against him lifting her hips to meet his grinding hardness and gasping at the delicious feeling of friction between them despite the intervening layers of clothing and he moaned her name against her lips in a kind of frantic prayer.

A broad, long fingered hand slid up her stomach and over her bodice, it’s palm coming to rest over her breast, causing the nipple beneath to harden and pucker. She hissed at the contact, fisting her fingers into the back of his jacket to pull him closer and biting at his swollen lip.

‘My Christine,’ he moaned into her mouth, his lips feverishly claiming hers again, his tongue tentatively questing for entry, ‘mine, mine, mine…’ He repeated the word like a mantra, punctuating it with bites and kisses.

‘Yours,’ she whispered, sliding her hands lower on his back, pressing him against her so she could feel his straining arousal pressing firmly against her core. She shifted back slightly, opening up the space between them.

‘And you are mine,’ she growled, cupping her hand over his hardness and squeezing gently.

His hips bucked against her and he hissed sharply. ‘God, Christine, Yes,’ he groaned. ‘Yours, always yours. Always…’

She dipped her fingers below his waistband, brushing them against the throbbing heat within. Her tentative touch caused him to shudder and release a noise that could only be described as a sob, his head dropping momentarily onto her shoulder. She smiled, and fumbled briefly with the fastening on his waistband before releasing it, and gently pushing the garment down to release him. He staggered slightly, and leaned back to look at her, his eyes wide with wonder, tongue darting out to moisten his lips.

She looked down, taking in the sight of him, the sinewy exposed torso, crumpled shirt tales hanging loose, a sight damp patch on their edges already evidence of his excitement. His cock twitched slighty, bobbing before her as if responding to her very gaze, and she ran a questioning finger down its length, marvelling at the hardness of it, it’s livid redness bright against the palor of his hips. What a strange thing to see, was a man. Before, all had been darkness, their tentative, fumbling touches the only method of sight and knowledge, but now in the full light of the evening she could see everything. Here, if nowhere else, was proof that the opera ghost was just a man, had always been just a man, and a man that desired her at that. A man that she could bring to his knees at mere touch, if she so desired. 

‘Christine?’ he gasped questioningly, and she swallowed convulsively, biting her lip, as she wrapped her fingers about him and gave an experimental stroke. He spluttered, eyes going wide in surprise for a moment, before his head rolled back on his shoulders and they fluttered shut, 

This was something new - she had done this with Raoul before, of course, towards the end of her pregnancy with Gustave when she could think of no other way to fend him off, but the act had always felt one sided and somehow furtive and shameful - a necessary evil to fulfil her duties and keep her husband satisfied. Now, with Erik’s cock firmly in her hand, she had never felt more powerful or sensual. She stroked again, building up a rhythm guided by the sound of his shallow breathing and spurred on by his deep, throaty moans. 

She pressed her legs together, seeking her own friction as her hand continued its quest, alternating between feather light touches and firm squeezes as she drove him onward. His hands fisted in the fabric of her skirts, clawing wildly at her thighs while his head lolled and he mouthed her name incoherently, his hips jerking involuntarily into her rhythm, until he suddenly hissed, pulling back slightly and grasping her wrist firmly, forcing her to stop.

‘Please, Christine, stop.’ he pleaded. ‘It has been so long - if you carry on like that I will not be able to hold myself any longer..’

A slow wicked grin spread across Christine’s face and she drew her finger lightly across his tip, rubbing in the bead of moisture which gathered there.

‘Then don’t.’ she replied, savouring the expression of arousal and confusion on his face. She did not know where this new wanton Christine had come from, but from the delirious, blown look in Erik’s eyes she did not want to stop. ‘I dismissed Miss Fleck for the night and sent her to ask the nanny to stay with Gustave until tomorrow morning. We have all night.’

His mouth opened in surprise, momentarily rendered speechless by the implied intent of her actions, and she seized the moment to wrap her hand about him again, resuming her ministrations with enthusiasm, the gentle touch of her hand and the promise of her words driving him rapidly back towards the brink of release.

‘Christ, Christine!’ he ground out, a delicious wave of tension building and washing over him until he climaxed with a shuddering groan, one hand clenched tight over his own forehead, the other thrust out to catch himself as his knees buckled and he stumbled forward, his outstretched fingers blindly crashing out a triumphant chord as his thick seed pulsed violently over Christine’s hand.

Christine watched in awe as he shuddered and stilled, the sticky liquid trickling over her fingers and a warm, thrumming pulse building between her own legs. His eyes squeezed shut and he breathed heavily through the ruin of his nose for a moment, attempting to regain his equilibrium, and Christine took the opportunity to stare at him with abandon. The planes of his face where still grotesque, to be sure, but when contorted with pleasure as they had just been, they were rendered surprisingly soft and beautiful. A small almost uncertain smile now played over his lips as his breathing began to calm and she was momentarily overwhelmed by a desire to see that smile there every day and know that she was the cause of it.

His eyes fluttered open and met hers again, and she blushed deeply, despite herself.

‘Christine,’ he murmured, ‘my love,’ and he dropped a tender kiss onto her lips, straightening himself slightly, and fiddling with his shirt tails in a futile attempt to cover himself. She smiled inwardly at his endearing state of dishevelment.

‘Forgive me,’ he muttered, blushing in turn as he noticed the state of her still outstretched hand ‘I should find something to clean you up,’ his eyes flickered quickly over their surroundings in search of a suitable cloth or rag, and he cursed himself for not carrying a pocket square as other gentlemen might.

‘No need,’ she replied almost shyly, reaching into her own sleeve and pulling from within an embroidered handkerchief, bordered with lace. ‘When one has children one soon learns to always be prepared,’ she offered, smirking slightly, and he nodded in acknowledgement, before hissing in surprise as she took the square of fabric and tenderly cleaned his own softening length, before turning her attention to her own hand, wiping it clean

_ ‘Christine,’  _ he whispered reverently, ‘I do not…’ his voice broke off, unsure how to continue, a host of unspoken emotion shimmering in his eyes. He reached a still trembling hand forward to cradle her cheek, his thumb ghosting over her lips and she captured it with them momentarily, placing a lingering kiss on its pad. ‘ _ My love,’  _ he breathed reverently, the deep rumble of his voice once again sending a jolt of desire through her. She smiled softly, and lifted her hand to her lips, tentatively tasting the salty tang of her fingers. His eyes widened and a low rumble, was it of desire, or amusement?, emitted from his chest, before he bent and captured her lips with his again in a slow, lingering kiss.

Christine squirmed and attempted to wind her arms about his neck to pull him closer. Now that the thrill of chasing his pleasure was starting to ebb she was becoming increasingly aware of her own ever growing need, but unsure of how to communicate it. She found herself seeking that initial and delicious slow, grinding tension, so it was with a hiss of disappointment and a slight sting of rejection that she saw him pull back from her and attempt to re-fasten the button on his trousers. Her angry pout soon melted into confusion when he held out his hand to her and beckoned her to follow him across the room. He chuckled gently in response.

‘Oh, my darling,’ he said, raising his hand to her lips and placing a gentle lingering kiss there. ‘Nothing would give me more pleasure than to continue right here as we are, but I fear if I am ever to be able to concentrate on playing this piano again I must request we must move our activities to a, shall I say, more comfortable, location?’

Christine smiled, and chuckled in return, blushing slightly as she dipped her head in acknowledgment and scooted off the lid of the instrument, it’s keys emitting a tinkling protest as her skirts trailed over the keyboard behind her. 

‘It is a sensible request,’ she replied, ‘though I am loathe to admit it.’ 

She stood in front of him and looked up at him playfully, and he wrapped his arms about her, pulling her into a tight embrace and kissing her gently on top of her head. 

‘If you only knew,’ he murmured, stroking the back of her hair gently. ‘That piano has been the scene of all my most treasured and happiest memories these last few months, and now…’ she shuddered blissfully, and he stepped back again, looking her deeply in the eye, the mood suddenly feeling very intense.

‘You meant it, when you said that you had sent Fleck to inform nanny that you would not be home for the night?’ he asked, uncertainty quivering at the edge of his voice. ‘You desire to stay, here, with me?’

She took a deep breath, and nodded, trying to convey an ease and confidence she was not sure she felt. He smiled softy in return and led her by the hand to a curtain at the back of the room, pulling gently at a rope beside it so that it parted swiftly, revealing a small recessed area containing a large low, cushioned strewn couch. Beside it was a small table the surface of which was strewn with papers and books, illuminated by the light of a small lamp. There was a simple washstand, and a large dark armoire, but the space was mostly dominated by the large arched window behind the couch. 

She stepped forward, and he released the cord, allowing the curtain to drop again behind them. The space was basic, and sparse, but strangely intimate, and she found herself blushing fiercely. She cleared her throat and looked out the window - from their great height there was a clear view over all the park, now illuminated in its full nighttime glory. 

‘The view is beautiful from here,’ she whispered.

‘Yes,’ he replied gently, but when she turned his eyes were firmly trained on her, and not the window.

He felt strangely vulnerable now, standing unmasked with his clothing in disarray in his most personal space. He shuffled slightly, running his hand nervously over the back of his neck. He gestured toward the couch, sheepishly, ashamed that he could not offer her a real bed, but relieved at least that he had not chosen to opt for a coffin this time.

‘Would you care to sit?’ he asked, uneasily. ‘I’m sorry it is only very basic. I am not much of a sleeper.’ 

She smiled and nodded, ‘Yes, I recall,’ she replied sitting down and running her hand over the exotic looking coverings.

He lowered himself to sit next to her, legs trembling slightly. For a moment they sat in silence, staring down at their own feet, then Christine felt a tentative on the hand she rested between them. Slowly, cool slim fingers crawled over hers, enveloping them gently and clasping them in an embrace. A calloused digit trailed a lazy circling path in the centre of her palm and his thumb brushed gently over her knuckles.

Slowly she turned toward him, her eyes meeting his own intense amber gaze.

‘Christine,’ he breathed, ‘may I kiss you again?’

She smiled, surprised that he would trouble to ask her permission after her most forward behaviour only moments ago, she uttered a gentle ‘yes’ in reply, and he leaned forward, softly planting his lips on hers.

If their kisses before were frantic and fevered, the ones that followed now were languid and sensual, lips softly nuzzling and exploring, gently caressing and pulling at each other while their tongues met in a slow and sensual dance in between. Gradually, he brought his hand up, twisting it into the back of her hair and stroking her neck with a soft gentle caress, coaxing soft sighs from her lips. His nimble fingers sought out her hair pins, gently plucking at them one by one until her curls cascaded down her back in a thick, luxurious sheet, which he lifted reverently in one hand to rub against his cheek.

‘Christine,’ he whispered, pushing her gently so that she fell back against the couch and he came to rest above her, ‘you are, so, so beautiful. May I show you how much you mean to me? Please?’

She swallowed thickly and nodded, heat already pooling in her stomach once more as the ebbing ache between her thighs began to build and throb again.

He captured her lips again, kissing her deeply and sensuously, before trailing his lips down her jaw, nipping at her earlobes and suckling at her neck. She felt his tongue trace a wet trail along her collarbone, dipping swiftly between her breasts while his hands ran a slow path over her nipples and down towards her waist. She felt herself burn for his touch through her corset and arched her back to meet him, her eyes fluttering shut in anticipation.

Then suddenly, he was gone, his body no longer pressed alongside her, her skin crying out at the loss of his touch. She craned her neck up and saw him, crouched on the floor by her feet, one hand resting on the heel of her shoe. Slowly and gently, he took each foot in his hands, cradling it by the ankle so that the touch of his cool fingers felt like fire, and slipped her shoes off, placing them neatly at the end of the bed. His hands worked swiftly, first rubbing the balls of each foot gently, before crawling up her calves, kneading them softly and coming to rest at her thighs, hooking a long digit into the top of her stocking and removing it with a swift motion. Her breath hitched at the feel of him, his fingerprints leaving burning marks at their departure, until her legs were totally bare save for her drawers beneath her skirts.

Then with a quick, almost devilish glance in her direction, he ducked his head, and with a rustle of skirt fabric, disappeared underneath them completely. Christine squealed in delight and shock and she felt him chuckle lightly as his bloated lips made contact with her ankle, mouth and tongue trailing lazily up the inside of one leg while a spidery hand stroked and teased a similar path up the other.

She squirmed and moaned softly at the contact, the delightful torture stoking the fire in her belly, a slick moisture growing rapidly in her aching centre. His questing fingers found their way to the edge of her drawers and he slid his palm upwards bunching at the fabric until he found the opening at its centre and he slipped his fingers inside, gently teasing at the curls beneath. Her hips bucked involuntarily at the contact, and she sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers grasping at the pillows of the couch and her head rolling back in anticipation, silently willing him on to that spot where her ache was deepest and most urgent.

Deftly his long musician’s fingers worked syncopated rhythms over her, teasing at her folds, testing and adjusting his approach with each hitch of her breath until he found his way to that most sensitive bud, skimming over it with a calloused finger pad so that she cried out his name with need and he hummed appreciatively, redoubling his focus until she was wound so tight she thought she might snap. Then suddenly the fingers were gone, sliding down to seek out her opening, gently probing and teasing and her slick wetness, his rough voice gasping in wonder at the moisture and heat within.

‘Oh Christine,’ he moaned worshipfully, ‘you are so wet. I did not know, I never dreamed…’

He plunged a finger deep within her, curling it gently and then pulling it out and trailing it upwards to tease at her clit and she called out incoherently, begging for release.

‘Please, Angel, Oh -  _ please’ _

‘My good girl,’ he purred between her legs, and she could feel his warm breath blowing over her aching sex. ‘My sweet, beautiful Christine…’

Slowly, almost torturously he lowered his mouth onto her, flicking out his tongue to taste her, his full, misshapen lips capturing her and suckling her, teeth grazing at her most sensitive point while his long fingers continued to pump and pulse inside her and she felt herself pulling taught, winding and winding until at last something snapped and she felt herself clench against him, grinding down onto his noseless face, her body writhing as a flood of sensation washed over her and she cried out incoherently in joy and he crooned gently against her in appreciation. 

As the waves of her climax began to ease she lifted her upper body off the bed, craning her neck to look at where he still crouched beneath her skirts, one hand still lazily tracing circles over her cunt, his mouth placing soft, teasing kisses on the top of her mound. Her breath was still coming shallow, and she prepared to sink back into the softness of the cushions when she noticed the other hand in his lap crawling a slow path up his own thigh, clutching and pawing at himself almost involuntarily as he continued to tease at her. The sight of it sent an electric jolt of renewed desire running through her, and she ground herself hard into him, causing him to give a muffled grunt of surprise from beneath her skirts. 

Suddenly she became acutely aware that they were both wearing far too many clothes. She had an uncontrollable urge to feel his skin against hers, so see each and every millimeter of him and cover it in kisses.

She reached down and flung up her skirts, revealing his surprised face still working beneath her thighs. She sat up, grabbing his shoulders roughly and yanking his jacket from them. He looked momentarily surprised and confused, and then suddenly catching her meaning rose to meet her, diligently working to divest himself of his waistcoat and cravat, before pausing to assist her with the fastenings on her skirts and bodice.

The material soon pooled at her feet in a whisper of silk and petticoats and he began to work at the laces of her corset, long fingers plucking and tugging while his mouth returned his attention to the newly exposed skin at her shoulders, growling in frustration.

‘Why must women wear these damnable contraptions,’ he grumbled, nipping at her playfully before finally working it loose so she stood before him in only her drawers and chemise, the outline of her form visible through the thin layer of fabric.

His eyes flashed to the lamp and the drapes on the window, and he looked at her questioningly.

‘If you would prefer, I can put out the light?’ he offered.

Christine shook her head firmly. ‘No hiding, no secrets,’ she replied, ‘not this time.’

He nodded and swallowed thickly, unbuttoning the top of his shirt before pulling it over his head and standing before her in just his trousers, the half buttoned fastenings straining against the force of his erection. She followed suit, gripping the hem of her chemise and pulling it over her head so that she stood in nothing but her drawers. Her eyes met his and she stepped forward, reaching out an unsteady hand to unbutton his waistband and push his trousers off his hips, while he fiddled trembling with the string on her drawers until it released and they fell too.

She breathed out and placed a gentle kiss onto his chest, revelling in the uneven texture of his skin and the still so familiar musk, and soap and sandalwood smell of him. He ran a reverent hand up her hip, holding her gently by the shoulder as he walked her backward and guided her down onto the couch, settling himself in front of her, kneeling between her parted legs.

She drank in his appearance. He was as slim and angular as her memories told her. Age had not softened his edges, and his ribs and hipbones still jutted almost painfully from his skin, but now she could see where she could only feel before how the ribbons of his muscle, lean and firm ran over them, tendons and tissue rippling lithely with every move. Skinny he might be, but he was not frail - there was grace and power in every movement. Visible too were the scars she had only felt with tentative fingertips at their first coupling. She saw now in the light that they were far more numerous than touch betrayed. Many old and faded criss crossed by the uglier and more raised. Her stomach clenched to see those which were evidently new since she had last known him. Redder and more virulent looking against the papery whiteness of his skin.

He shuddered a little, as if he could feel her gaze appraising him and a haunted look crossed over his face, but he did not move. She held out her arms to him, beckoning him to come to her, and he breathed in relief, running his hand over his head, and then hesitating a moment, before gingerly removing the wig and placing it one side. He cocked his head slightly at her, and she held the gesture solid, twitching her fingers at him to confirm her continued acceptance. His breath hitched in a small sob and he crumpled forward onto her, capturing her face in his hands and peppering it with kisses, the trail of his lips mingling with the tears that fell from his eyes.

‘Oh, my darling, my angel, my most beautiful, beloved Christine,’ he gasped between kisses, each one more fervent and frenzied than the next.

Christine said nothing, allowing him his moment of catharsis, not wanting to make any comment that might make him feel self conscious. Instead she allowed her lips to answer for her, returning his kisses with equal fervour, her hands caressing his head and face with all the tenderness she knew how to express.

For a while they remained there, leaning into each other, their slow breathing coming in tandem, trailing lazy kisses over cheek and jawbones, fingers tracing gentle lines down necks and forearms, enjoying the warmth that spread from the spots where their bodies made contact, until the kisses changed in nature, deepening and becoming more demanding, lips, teeth and tongues all snatching and tasting in an attempt to devour and own every inch of skin available to them.

Erik’s mind was reeling, his brain lost in a fog of desire and disbelief. Every touch and every sigh sent pulses of fire shooting through his veins. His very nerve endings tingled and crackled in the wake of her fingers, and his mind could not stop screaming out that she was here, she was here, she was willing, and she was touching him. And now she was right there, half reposed in front of him, completely naked, her eyes raking over his own revolting form and instead of screaming and running away he could see nothing but desire reflected back at him from her own eyes. Hot tears leaked from his eyes, trickling down his cheeks and he didn’t really know if he was crying because she was real, or because she was his and she hadn’t fled, or because after ten years without her every single contour of her body still felt so familiar, the memory of its touch burned into his very soul and to feel her again felt as near to be whole and home as he had ever been in his life.

God damn it, she was beautiful. He’d always known that - even from his shadowed glances in the dark all those years ago, from the softness beneath his fingers and the sweetness under his tongue he had known that she was the most heavenly creature on earth, but now, when he saw her bathed in the light from park he knew that even his imagination had not been able to perceive the full truth of it. She was a goddess. Time and motherhood had wrought changes on her; her once taught stomach was now softer and more rounded, the mounds of her breasts fleshier and drooping - her legs, once lithe and toned from dancing, now thickened but strong looking. His fingers mapped the constellations of pale white scars that covered her belly and chest - proof that she had carried and nursed  _ his _ child and he wanted to weep and lay a thousand kisses on each one and thank her over and over again for the gift that she had given him. Yes, she had been beautiful before, but now, he did not have the words to express it. She was a marvel, more moving than any sonata or symphony ever composed. She was music personified, she was life.

He pushed her deeper into the cushions of the couch, his hands snaking down her torso while his lips mounted an assault on her neck. Slowly, he worked his way downwards, hands skimming hipbones, kneading buttocks and then finally, slipping its way into the slick wetness between her folds, teasing at that most sensitive spot, his mouth suckling and nipping at her breasts until she writhed beneath him, shuddering and screaming his name, begging for release.

‘Erik, please,’ she gasped. ‘Please.’

He did not need asking twice. Supporting his weight on a trembling arm he positioned himself in front of her entrance, gently easing himself in, his eyes fixed on hers, searching for any sign of pain or discomfort. She rolled her head back, hissing slightly at the unfamiliar feeling of fullness and the delicious, aching stretching. Tentatively she lifted her hips to meet him, shifting her position and enveloping him fully. Her satisfied groan was his undoing. He meant to be gentle, had intended to be a tender, considerate lover to her, but instead he found himself growling, his hips jerking back convulsively, pulling out and then ramming himself into her with an almost animal grunt. Her eyes went wide, and she arched, letting out a surprised moan, and one hand flying up to his shoulder to steady herself.

‘Oh Christ, Christine!’ he groaned, stilling momentarily ‘I am sorry, I did not mean to hurt you.’

She shook her head, meeting his eyes with a wild gaze. ‘Don’t apologise,’ she gasped. ‘And don’t stop.’

He blinked momentarily, completely unsure of how to proceed, and she took advantage of his hesitation to wrest control from him, rocking her hips against him rhythmically, guiding him onward until she lost herself in the dance. Their bodies moved together with increasing intensity, a frantic, writhing, grasping sweating mass, moaning and shuddering towards climax, until they collapsed into a glistening heap on the couch, both of them breathless and stunned.

Christine was briefly aware that she ought to disentangle herself from the sticky, drying mess between her legs, but her limbs felt so deliciously heavy, and her muscles so impossibly fluid, that she found that she was incapable of moving anywhere. Instead, she allowed herself to succumb to the gentle sleepiness that washed over her, only briefly aware of the heavy limbs which draped over her own, the hand that walked in slow languid circles at the small of her back, and the voice in her ear which whispered endearments with a softly hitching breath and sang her to sleep with a gentle hummed lullaby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God Oh God Oh God.
> 
> Erm? How was that for you?? 
> 
> Seriously, this is my first attempt at smut, so that was terrifying. Only one chapter left to go now I'm afraid, and then the one shots. If anyone wants to send me prompts for these two (& their pals) please let feel free to hit me up on Tumblr. I don't have much more to say for this specific story arc, but I'd be more than happy to explore little scenes from their lives in the future if people want to know what they are up to.


	15. The love that we deserve

Erik woke to the early dawn light creeping through the window, casting a sharp beam across the bed. It illuminated the edge of Christine’s face. The gentle curve of her brow, now slightly furrowed in sleep, the softness of her cheekbone and the pleasing swell of her lips. Lips which had kissed him again and again, and murmured such promises of love. A slow, incredulous smile crept across his face, and he lifted his hands to feel the almost ridiculous stretch of his lips. What would she think if she woke to see him grinning in this goblin like fashion he wondered, but then he recalled her kissing his ruined cheeks and her raptured voice telling him she had missed his face. There had been such truth and feeling in her eyes that even with his own over generous helping of self loathing he could not help but believe her. She loved him - despite his face. She loved him  _ including  _ his face. 

His mind continued to scroll back through the previous night, each remembered touch and sigh more precious than the ones before. He treasured them all up until he felt almost drunk on the memory of them. Until last night he had been rather indifferent to his name. It was just one of many he had used over the years, perhaps his most preferred and the one he most often used to refer to himself in his own innermost thoughts, but still, just a name. But now he had heard her call it out in tones of rapture, to know that those sighs and cries of pleasure where for him alone, it had taken on new meaning. Suddenly there was nothing more he longed for than to hear her cry the word  _ Erik  _ again and again. 

He felt himself stiffen and swell at the thought, and for a moment he was tempted to reach out and wake her, anxious to re-live the moment and reaffirm what his mind could barely believe to be true, but the look of peaceful repose on her face gave him pause and he schooled himself to resist. Besides which, he had another, if it were possible, even more urgent and pressing need. A melody that had been swirling incessantly in his head from the moment he woke. 

He slid gently from the couch, pulling on the ornate chinese robe which hung on a stand nearby, and padded gently through to his workspace. His mask still lay carelessly discarded on the floor next to the piano stool. He stooped to pick it up, and for a moment was tempted to place it back on his face, but his hands halted in mid air before him, and he found himself staring at the back of it in deep contemplation. With a shuddering breath, he quickly placed it down onto the lid, moving his hands from it as if it burned - letting himself savour the moment of freedom a little while longer, while he could.

He made to sit on the stool, his hands already stretching towards the keys, the melody twitching at his fingertips, when a soft sigh and a rustle of fabric from beyond the curtain reminded him that he was not alone, and as such, dawn recitals might not be fully appreciated by all. Huffing a little and flexing his knuckles, he grabbed a sheaf of stave paper and a fresh quill, spreading them over the lid of the piano, and began to scribble furiously, losing himself in the melodies which swirled around his mind.

Christine woke slowly, her brain still shrouded in a bubble of sleep even as her eyes fluttered open. She shivered slightly and clutched the thin covering that lay over her to her chest, while her mind slowly processed exactly where she was and how she came to be there. She stretched out a sleepy arm and finding the couch to be empty of all but herself a cold dread momentarily flooded her stomach. Surely he couldn’t be gone again? She rolled over, eyes wider now, saw movement through a small gap in the curtain. A scratching sound and a strange, rhythmical tapping reassured her that he was still there and she sunk back into the cushions of the couch, her heartbeat returning to a normal speed.

How strange that the idea of the loss of him should be so horrific after so many years of already believing him gone. Something of his scent and the residual warmth from where he lay still lingered, and she snuggled into it for a moment, then shifted, pulling herself into a sitting position, still clutching the cover in front of her chest. It’s thin folds did little to trap the warmth against her skin, and she shivered slightly, enjoying the silky feel of the fabric against her skin. A smile ghosted across her lips as she recalled waking in the dead of night, moonlight streaming through the window. The heat of their coupling had cooled and the sheen of sweat had dried on her skin, and she had shivered, almost imperceptibly, yet immediately his golden lamp like eyes had sprung open to peer at her in the gloom.

‘You are cold,’ he murmured. She could feel his breath brush across her collarbones, and her skin goosepimpled in response. He took that as affirmation, and silently rose from the couch, throwing aside the curtain and crossing the room to rummage in the trunk. His pale skin seemed to glow in the moonlight. She would not say he was  _ beautiful _ , somehow that seemed to make a mockery of him, but he was stirring. There was something powerful and magnetic in the way he moved, and as he returned to her she had to force herself to look away, suddenly abashed to have been caught staring.

He had returned with the gossamer blanket, draping it over her almost reverently, and the coolness of the fresh fabric against her skin, combined with the ghost of his touch as he laid it on her had caused her to shiver again. He laid down beside her again, stretched out on his back, eyes fixed upon the ceiling his muscles appearing taught. She noticed he kept a respectful distance from her and she immediately moved to remedy it, lifting the side of the cover from herself, and then scooting closer to him so that it might cover both of them. He exhaled a small hissing breath at the contact, and she peppered his shoulder with small kisses, pressing herself into his side, until finally he rolled over, his lips meeting her own in a greedy kiss.

Their second coupling was no less urgent than the first, the renewed contact igniting a frenzied need within them both. She could feel his hardness pressing up against her stomach as his hands roamed her body greedily, this time seeking out all those places which made her gasp and arch with a more assured touch than before. Then wordlessly he shifted over her, parting her legs with his knee and taking her with a single firm thrust. They began to move together rhythmically, his eyes never leaving hers all the while, as if he was convinced that should he even blink she might disappear.

Afterwards, when they had both reached their shuddering pinnacle and collapsed together, sated once more, he had drawn the sheet over them both again, trapping the warmth of their lovemaking within it, until she drifted back into a dreamless sleep.

For a moment she was tempted to lie back down and let herself sleep some more, luxuriating in the knowledge that nobody awaited her rising, demanding food, or help to bathe, or requiring confirmation about the household schedule or the meal plan for the week. It had been a long time since she had been able to just be Christine without any additional expectations. But while she was no longer subject to any external pressures, the demand from her own body was not to be ignored, and reluctantly she stretched, needing to find the facilities and relieve herself.

She looked about herself, and seeing no pot, realised that she would have to ask Erik. Despite the intimacies they had already shared this particular question felt mortifying. More so because she was still entirely naked and had no nightshift to cover her. She cast about herself, looking for something suitable to slip into. Her eyes alighted on Erik’s dress shirt, discarded by the side of the bed, and she seized upon it, pulling it over her head and inhaling his scent. Despite his slender frame it was more than ample to cover her where needed, and she felt a thrill of intimacy in wearing it so close to her skin. Pushing up the sleeves from where they dangled over her hands, she shyly parted the curtain and slipped out.

Erik was still hunched over the lid of the piano, his face bare, the robe slightly parted at his chest revealing a glimpse of white collarbone. The sparse hair on his head stuck up in all directions as he ran one hand absentmindedly over his scalp before reaching forward to scribble on his parchment some more. The fingers on his free hand tapped out a complicated rhythm on the wooden surface of the lid.

She shuffled slightly, nervous of startling him and unsure of how to proceed. The soft padding of her feet and the nervous intake of her breath however was enough to rouse him, and his head snapped up, hands frozen in mid air above the parchment.

‘Good morning,’ she whispered, 

Eriks mind froze, and then began running in double time. Was that  _ his  _ shirt she was wearing? Good lord, she made it look positively indecent! How on earth could something as simple as seeing his own clothing on her be so alluring? He swallowed thickly and forced himself to say something in greeting before he appeared too stupid, but all he managed was to produce a rather strangled and breathy sounding  _ Christine. _

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ she said, gesturing to his work.

Fumbling, he dropped the quill and shook his head.

‘No, no… not at all,’ he stuttered. ‘I did not wake you, I hope?’

She shook her head. ‘I was wondering, if you could perhaps tell me where your  _ facilities  _ are.’ She dropped her eyes, hoping he would understand.

Erik felt the heat rise in his cheeks immediately. Of course, this was the kind of thing that normal people told their overnight guests beforehand. He cursed his inexperience and her obvious discomfort in having to ask, and forced a tone of nonchalance into his voice to answer her.

‘Of course, - just behind the door there. I apologise if they are somewhat basic. I trust you will find everything you need?’

She nodded and scooted across the room and through the door as fast as she could, anxious to avoid discussing the topic any further.

Erik dropped his head into his hands. ‘I trust you will find everything you need?’ What kind of statement was that. He had no idea what kind of things women normally kept in their bathroom, or if they would be comfortable in telling him if they found them lacking. He made a mental note to try and raise the topic with Miss Fleck in a manner that would not cause him any more mortification that was absolutely necessary.

Some moments later the rattle of the door handle announced she was about to re-emerge. Erik quickly bent over his work again, determined that he would not be caught staring after her. His resolve failed as soon as she appeared, still dressed in his shirt, her hair cascading over her shoulders and her feet bare. He had been foolish to think that he would be able to concentrate on anything else - she was a walking miracle.

Christine padded over to the piano and sat down on the bench beside him, settling herself into his side. He reached up an uncertain hand and stroked the hair flowing down her back, the simple quiet intimacy of the moment rendering him speechless.

‘I missed you when I woke’ she said softly. He shivered.

‘Is it something new?’ she asked, looking at the ink splattered pages before her.

He nodded. ‘I woke up with it half formed,’ he explained. ‘It needed to come out.’

She smiled up at him. ‘May I hear it?’ 

He blinked, and then nodded. Much as he did not want to break this moment of contact between them, he  _ was  _ keen to hear the thing come to life. He did not enjoy composing in silence. Far better to let the melody flow through him naturally and capture it that way.

He shifted a little on the bench and she slid away, allowing him room to play. He closed his eyes and spread his hands over the keyboard, ignoring what was written before him and allowing the music that was swirling in his head to flow forth. Christine listened transfixed. She had heard a lot of Erik’s music recently. Of course, she had also heard his Don Juan, and there were numerous little ditties and trills that she suspected were of his own devising that he had played to entertain her during her music lessons. His music always moved her, but it was always so full of longing and pain and passion that it was hard to say whether it moved her to pleasure or pain. This was different. It was melancholy and perhaps a little nostalgic, but more than that  _ hopeful.  _ It was slow, and tinkling and beautiful, yet somehow seductive and intimate. She let it wash over here like a gentle caress.

His hands slowed, and the melody stopped and the disappointment must have shown on her face. He looked at her apologetically. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, lifting his hands to look at them, ‘that is all I have so far. I do not know how it ends yet.’

She sighed and smiled at him. ‘It is beautiful,’ she replied. ‘I think it might be the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.’

Now it was his turn to smile. He lifted a hand and touched her gently on the chin. ‘It ought to be,’ he replied, ‘it is you. You created that - I just play it.’

Christine’s brow furrowed in thought, lifting a finger and picking out a simple version of the melody on the keys of the piano. ‘No,’ she said slowly, ‘No, I don’t think it’s me.’ 

He frowned in response, preparing to insist that she alone was his muse, and that it was only thanks to her that he was able to conceive of anything resembling beauty or light in his life, but she stopped him in his tracks.

‘It is us - you and I, we do that together. I could not sound quite so beautiful on my own, and nor, dare I say it could you.’ She plunked at the keys again. ‘It is rather melancholy when you listen to it again is it not? I suspect that most people would think it rather strange and sad.’ 

She looked at him thoughtfully, talking almost to herself rather than requiring any response from him. ‘I suppose that is appropriate really. I do not expect anybody else to understand this, and I am sure, given our past, that some people will find this all rather morbid, but you and I both know that something which can appear broken and malformed on the surface can hide something beautiful underneath. Yes, I think it is very fitting indeed.’

He stared at her for a long moment, a mixture of awe and sadness on his face. He knew that by entering into a relationship with her, whatever that relationship might look like, he was trapping her forever in this life - a half life of shadow and strangeness with a masked freak on her arm. She would never fully walk in the light again. But then had he not already condemned her to that ten years ago when he left her with a child bearing his own cursed face to rear? Was it not fitting that if they were both to live in the shadows, they at least try to do so together? He was not sure whether it was selfishness to think so, but he knew without question that even if it were he could not give her up, even if he wished to, even if he ought to. 

She lifted a hand to caress his cheek, and he flinched, suddenly recalling that his face was still naked, but she did not withdraw. There was no hint of horror and revulsion in the gaze that met his, only acceptance and love.

‘How do you do it?’ he asked falteringly.

Her brow wrinkled. ‘Do what?’

‘Look at it. Touch it without flinching. Nobody has ever been able to do that before, but you…’

Something slightly liquid shifted in her eyes, and she smiled a sad smile at him.

‘Truthfully, I do not see it. Not any more. You forget I have been living with this face, or at least a miniature of it for over ten years now. It is a face, just like any other.’

He blinked, a creeping sensation of wonder washing over him, and she chuckled at the incredulous look on his face.

‘So you see,’ she said, her voice now light and teasing, ‘I’m afraid if you ever had any plans to impress or intimidate me with your monstrousness then you must abandon them entirely. I do not see it. All I see is a man.’

He moved so swiftly and fluidly that she did not see it coming. The fond giggle died on her lips as they were claimed violently by his own, his hands grasping tightly at the folds of shirt fabric at her waist.

‘You are a marvel,’ he growled, his voice rough against her skin as he peppered her with worshipful kisses, his hands moving to cradle her face as though it were a precious object.

She tilted her head back, taking in the dangerous glint forming in his eyes. Her fingers walked idly along the leather upholstery beneath them.

‘You know’ she began, licking her lips, ‘I am becoming very fond of this piano stool.’

The glint became a flash, and with a shriek she found herself scooped up in a pair of sinuous arms, and spun off the stool. Her back made contact with the wall opposite and he pressed himself against her. Instinctively she wrapped her legs about his waist, her arms clasped firmly around his neck. His mouth ranged hungrily from her lips to her collarbones and he growled what she could only suppose to be terms of endearment (or was it something more risqué?) in a range of languages she did not recognise.

The hem of his shirt rucked up about her hips exposing her bareness to him and his hands gripped at the soft flesh at the top of her thighs, long fingers reaching and stroking tantalisingly close to her sex. She shuddered, surprised to find herself so ready and wanting so soon after the previous night’s activities. His arousal was already evident through the opening of his gown, and she squirmed, rocking herself in his grip so that its tip brushed against her opening and he moaned deeply against her skin.

Bracing himself against her, he gripped her thighs, pulling them further apart as he lifted her and lowered her slowly onto his length. She hissed at the sensation of him filling her already tender flesh, then moaned as he withdrew and thrust into her deeply, a jolt of pleasure shooting up her spine as his cock pushed hard against something within her that made her tremble and pulse. She threw her head against the wall, her hands clawing at his shoulders and he pounded into her again, drawing out a keening whine from deep within her, building with each relentless thrust until she heard herself screaming his name, her body teetering on the crest of a wave.

‘Yes,’ he hissed, ‘sing! Sing for me!’ and she shattered against him, gripping and pulling at him in spasmodic jerks until with one final almighty thrust he let loose a guttural cry and his knees buckled, collapsing into her until they slid down the wall landing together in a tangled heap, both panting and trembling.

There were no words, no music on earth powerful enough to describe what he felt in that moment. To be able to be himself, bare in all his revolting ugliness and for her not to see it, to see past it to the person who had long been buried underneath was more than he could comprehend. He had often dreamed that she would one day come to accept his face, but in that dream she had only ever tolerated it and been able to look at it without shrinking away in revulsion. He had never imagined that he would see the love and acceptance that he had seen in her eyes in that moment, or the passion and adoration that lingered still now. With her he had the prospect of being a normal man, even for these fleeting private moments, and it was more than his heart could hold to contemplate it. 

They remained there for some moments, their breathing and heartbeat steadying, neither one willing to break the enchantment that seemed to be over them. If the whole world had ceased to exist at the moment it would not be certain that either one of them would have noticed it. Gradually however, life began to creep its way back into their consciousness. The sound of shoes on the stair outside and the scrape of a tray being placed in the doorway informed them subtly that Miss Fleck had returned and that it was time to commence the day.

Reluctantly Erik rose, and Christine watched with a disappointed pang as he collected his wig, placing it on his head and smoothing the hair into place, before replaced the mask on his face and sheepishly approached the door, returning moments later with a tray laden with steaming teapot and toast.

The unease with which Erik spread his own piece with jam and nibbled nervously told her that he was not used to eating in company, and she wondered whether he would normally breakfast at all, or whether this was a luxury laid on by Miss Fleck, knowing of her presence. She blushed at the thought that the shrewd little woman could be under no illusion as to what had taken place this night, and mentally made note to find a way to thank her for her assistance, without, of course, directly referring to the circumstances themselves. She really was a gem. 

If Erik ate little however, Christine supplied the deficiency, and she soon polished off the remainder, her appetite stoked by their activities. All too soon however the plate was empty and the pot dry, and she reluctantly rose to begin her toilette, collecting her scattered clothing from the floor around the couch and hoping that the creases, such as they were, were minimal enough not to draw attention.

She smiled to herself as she lifted the shift over her head, slipping into her corset and tugging at the ties. Though he did his best to appear as though he were not staring, she did not miss how his eyes never left her for a moment. An overwhelming expression of adoration in them, as if every little twitch of her fingers was some kind of miracle. Nor did she miss how his hands shook when she asked him to help tighten her laces, or tie the cords of her petticoats. It was something very heady and satisfying to hold such power and fascination over a man, she thought, and she reminded herself that she must not get drunk on it. She felt like quite the exhibitionist.

Erik was not so confident in his morning routine. He wished desperately to hide himself away to dress, so that he might reappear once again his composed and controlled self, but even as the thought flitted through his head he batted it away, reminding himself that whatever he might feel about his own revolting carcass,  _ she  _ at least, did not appear to see it also. There was a thrill and intimacy of its own to being so exposed.

Still, his robe remained on as he pulled on his trousers, and he was quick to seize the opportunity when her back was turned and her attention focussed on the fastening of her own buttons before he shrugged it off and threw a shirt over his head to cover himself. If Christine noticed that he selected yesterday’s shirt that she had discarded on the end of the couch, instead of retrieving a fresh one from the closet, she did not comment. He breathed in the scent of her and luxuriated in the thought of wearing her memory close to his skin for the rest of the day. 

Dressing completed she turned her attention to the unruly mass of her hair, running her fingers through it to tease out the knots, and briefly contemplating enlisting Erik’s help to do so, before dismissing the idea as a poor one if she ever wanted to get home to her son at all. She sighed, picking up a couple of stray hairpins from the floor and chuckling to herself.

‘Oh dear, I must look positively deshevilled.’

Erik wanted to reply that he had never seen anything more beautiful, and that if this was deshevillement then he was rather fond of it, but the words did not seem to want to come from his mouth, so instead he just stood there, staring stupidly.

‘This will not do. We shall have to be better prepared in the future,’ she continued, hunting out another pin from under the piano, and then deftly twisting her curls on top of her head and pinning them into some semblance of respectability.

Erik looked at her in confusion.

‘I’m afraid you will have to prepare for your home to be thoroughly feminised. If I am not to cause a scandal by appearing in such a fashion every time I leave your rooms, then I shall have to keep some things here in the future.’

Erik nodded, still hardly able to comprehend that Christine Daae was here, in his rooms, willingly, and had been all night, let alone that she was already planning to do it again. A strange, almost uncomfortable bubbling sensation built in his chest, and he shifted awkwardly.

‘Perhaps a proper blanket too?’ She offered, looking at him apologetically. 

The corners of his mouth twitched. He nodded again.

A proper bed would be even better she thought privately, but she opted not to voice it, lest he begin to fret that her stay had not been as comfortable as it might. In truth, he could have laid her in a coffin last night and she would have slept soundly after all that had occurred.

‘Of course,’ she continued, still fussing with her hair and rearranging the pins, ‘we’ll need to think about a more practical long-term solution too, ‘I cannot always be sneaking off to sleep on your couch, but I’m not sure that my suite will afford us much, well - privacy - with Gustave about.’ She blushed at the implication of her words, hoping he would understand.

The corners of Eriks mouth pulled wider, and to his surprise, he let out a short barking laugh.

‘Erik?’ Christine asked, looking at him in alarm.

‘I’m sorry,’ he replied, fighting to control the strange workings of his face. ‘I’m not sure where that came from. Forgive me, I’m feeling rather - well - strange.’

‘Do you need a glass of water?’ She asked with concern. 

He shook his head, ignoring the feeling of strange energy which coursed through him. He clenched and unclenched his hands several times to try and disperse it. It was most odd, although not entirely unpleasant.

‘I am fine,’ he replied, with a smile he felt was much broader than current circumstances called for. It really had sounded like she had just suggested they might one day move in together though, and he felt positively giddy.

‘Of course,’ she continued, giving him an appraising look, ‘we will have to see how things go, but…’ she broke off, looking suddenly slightly abashed. ‘Well, it may be worth you speaking to whichever of your connections arranged the papers for Gustave.’

‘Papers?’ he asked, frowning with confusion.

She looked up at him from slightly lowered lids, her teeth worrying her lower lip, and for a moment he almost lost the thread of the conversation at the sight of it. Then she began to speak in a rush.

‘Well, yes. Christine Nylund doesn’t really exist, and I cannot very well wed you as Christine Daae. After all, she is supposed to be dead, and if she weren’t, she would technically still be married you see…’ She looked up at him, and her voice trailed off.

He stood before her open-mouthed, an expression of total surprise in his wide eyes. Her stomach dropped, and for a moment she feared that she had entirely mis-read the situation. Of course, he had asked her to marry him, after a fashion, all those years ago, and she would not dream of doing what they had done together with anyone else but the man she meant to marry. But it did not follow that he felt the same. Many years had passed since that strange night, and had he not left her all alone following their first coming together - perhaps his opinions on premarital relations were not so nice as hers were. But no sooner had the righteous anger began to flare in her stomach, he stirred and opened his mouth.

‘Wed?’ he murmured, his tone one of utter disbelief.

She nodded hesitantly.

His brain whirled. Married. To Christine. Him. Them. He didn’t believe it was possible. He would say he was dreaming, but this was a stretch even for his wildest imagination. Perhaps he was going mad? If he was he wasn’t sure he really cared.

‘You wish to be married? To me?’ he repeated.

She nodded again, a hopeful look spreading over her face. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘To you.’

It was all he needed to hear. Within seconds he had closed the space between them, crushing her to him fiercely, burying his face in her curls. The bubbling sensation in his chest grew until it burst out of him in strange heaving gasps and he couldn’t be sure if he was laughing, or crying, or both, but his face was certainly wet and he really didn’t much care anymore because he was fairly certain that he was, for what might have been the first time in his otherwise miserable existence, almost deliriously happy.

Christine held him gently, her hand stroking his back until the shudders subsided and he straightened and looked at her with red rimmed eyes full of wonder.

‘Well then,’ she said gently, reaching up to smooth his lapels before tucking an arm through his and resting her forehead on his shoulder. ‘In that case, perhaps we had better head out now. I think it is time we had a conversation with our son.’

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FLUFF. FLUFF EVERYWHERE! 
> 
> All done! Apologies for the shamelessly saccarine ending, but it's my party, so there! :D
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read along - it's been a fun introduction to POTO fic writing made all the more pleasant by getting such lovely comments from you all the way along. I really do appreciate each and every one of them.
> 
> Please feel free to send me prompts for these guys, or anything else you'd like to see me tackle. I'm keen to get my teeth into more projects now.


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